Daphne Greengrass and the 6th Year From Hell
by WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot
Summary: COMPLETE! A Slytherin in the DA? Fighting at the Ministry? Crushing on The Chosen One? Now, I'm gonna pay. I'm Daphne Greengrass and my 6th year is turning into a bloody nightmare! An AU Slytherin and Trio friendship story tracking HBP. RHr, HPGW, MCDG.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** This is a revised version of the Prologue to _**Daphne Greengrass and the 6th Year From Hell**_. Daphne is mentioned only once in canon; in _**Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix**_, the line from pp. 712-13 of the U.S. version:

"Hermione's name was called. Trembling, she left the chamber with Anthony Goldstein, Gregory Goyle, and Daphne Greengrass."

See my profile for my version's backstory, which is developed from my own real-life work.

I encourage readers to check out my one-shots set in the "From Hell" universe as well: the "A Second Thought" series. _**Hermione Granger: A Second Thought**_ is the prequel to this work — showing how Hermione and Daphne met through Hermione's eyes.

I own nothing. These are all JKR's babies. I'm just borrowing them.

* * *

**Listen closely to my song:**

**Though I am condemned to split you**

**Still I worry that it's wrong . . . **

**For our Hogwarts is in danger**

**From external, deadly foes**

**And we must unite inside her**

**Or we'll crumble from within**

**I have told you, I have warned you . . . **

**Let the Sorting now begin.**

—The Sorting Hat_, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ (US pg. 206-07).

**Prologue, Taking Place Shortly after Hog's Head in the Trio's 5th Year**

"She's a bloody _Slytherin_, Hermione! I don't give a rat's arse if you say she kisses babies and flies around on a unicorn! The others were ready to bolt once she showed up!" Ron Weasley's finger jabbed the air violently as he stumbled out of the dank pub. Hermione Granger followed him, storming out of the dingy bar they used for their first meeting of Dumbledore's Army. Hell, even Zacharias Smith (_the great prat!_) made a big stink about the bint showing up.

"And I think you have an absolutely _despicable_ attitude!" Hermione pursed her lips together, huffing in frustration at Ron's stubbornness. "I have plenty of reason to distrust her and the whole lot of them, with all those nasty things they say about me and you and Harry, but I think we should give her a chance!" Hermione turned away from Ron, collecting herself as much as possible so she wouldn't smack him soundly for being such a stubborn git.

Although he was generally disinterested in Daphne Greengrass during their classes together — he had _no_ reason whatsoever to pay any attention to her—he _had_ noticed when Harry had actually mentioned the Slytherin girl a couple of weeks into the term:

("_I dunno," Harry said._ "_She says she supports me, and since I'm short on supporters these days . . ."_)

Ron had wondered at the time what Harry was on about.

And at the first DA meeting today? Harry had _stood up_ for Daphne!

Well, sort of . . .

("_Hermione_ might've_ vouched for her . . . a little . . . er, and, well, she doesn't seem _as_ rotten as the rest of them,_"_ Harry had mumbled_. "_Don't know really about her myself, but I suppose Hermione's on a mission or something._")

Ron shook his head fiercely. Harry and Hermione had totally lost the plot!

Rule No. 1, they — meaning the Trio — did _not_ trust Slytherins.

Rule No. 2 — follow Rule No. 1.

Rule No. 3 — kindly refer back to Rule No. 2, rinse and repeat as necessary.

There was no changing one of the great unalterable laws of wizarding kind: Slytherins are right slimy two-faced bastards!

Ron felt Hermione tug on his shoulder.

"_WHAT_?"

"Ron," she began, her breath heavy after each word, trying to emphasize her point. She let go of his shoulder, slightly comforted by the fact that he was at least looking at her, although his eyes looked like they were on fire and his nostrils flared dangerously.

"I've been studying with her." Hermione began, very deliberately and precisely, while she ignored Ron as he spluttered indignantly. "Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Sometimes, we also work on Potions, maybe other classes at times if necessary. We've studied together now for one, maybe one and a half years. And," she added pointedly, "I never told you this, but she gave me a bit of help with notes during third year, when I wasn't talking to you or Harry." Hermione noted the abashed look on Ron's face.

"The first day we met this term," Hermione continued, "Daphne told me — uncomfortably, I might add — that she believed Harry's story about Cedric's death." Ron shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, making a big show of looking past Hermione's head. She refrained from rolling her eyes and continued to speak. "She never brought it up with me again, Ron. And Harry had already mentioned to me that she had also spoken to him, quite awkwardly, about the same thing after our first Potions class with the Slytherins."

"And just like that," Ron snapped his fingers and spoke indignantly, "you're braiding each other's hair and doing other girly shite?" He snorted. Hermione raised her hands up to stop him.

"Ron, she's really not _that_ bad." Hermione thought for a moment. "Okay, well, she's a bit rough around the edges. She talks very tough, swears an awful lot, and I had no idea that you actually create new swear words, but . . ." she spoke, gesturing to Ron, "after hanging around with your family, I shouldn't be surprised." Hermione looked just past him.

"Ron," Hermione spoke softly and plainly, "she really doesn't have a lot of money." Ron shifted from one foot to another, his eyes planted firmly on the ground at Hermione's feet. "I don't think she has much in her life."

Hermione walked around him for a little bit, collecting her thoughts.

"I think, and of course this is just my opinion, but she's not a very happy person."

Ron cocked his eyebrow. His mouth dropped open, nearly crashing to the ground.

"The girl's in Slytherin!" he exclaimed, gesturing wildly and desperately with outstretched arms. "That's mental torture in and of itself!"

Hermione was not to be dissuaded from her mission; to Ron's dismay, she kept talking about Greengrass.

"She has no close friends in her house, no real relationships with anyone. I don't even remember her going to the Yule Ball last year—"

"What? Too busy staring up _Vicky's_ large, hairy nose?"

"—When I started getting to know her!" Hermione glared at the redhead.

"Why the hell is that our problem? Why the hell does that mean she gets to be in the DA?"

"Ron, she said that watching the Triwizard Tournament and seeing Cedric's dead body was really hard for her. Her exact words were: '_I know I didn't know him, but it was still a _dead body_ there! Potter was crying about Cedric. His father was crying.' _Daphne said that it felt like something snapped in her seeing that."

Ron watched as Hermione's lower lip and chin trembled slightly. She shook her head to regain her poise.

"She was clearly affected by it, Ron, for whatever reason. And she couldn't understand why You-Know — I mean, V-voldemort killed him. Nor could she understand why Malfoy and his gang weren't even bothered by it." Hermione clasped her arms around her tightly, as if the air around her suddenly became colder. "Daphne said their reactions — she didn't go into details or anything like that — did it for her."

"Still don't get it, Hermione. Even if she means it now, she could still take it back if it means worming her way into Malfoy's good graces!"

Hermione looked at Ron and shook her head.

"She has her own reasons for despising Malfoy." Hermione stared at Ron, eyes focused on the redhead under half-lidded eyes. "Like I said, she doesn't have many friends in Slytherin. She's an outcast there, just like she's an outcast with everyone else at Hogwarts."

Ron didn't say anything, so Hermione went in for the kill.

"Harry's been talking to her a bit more too lately." She cringed at Ron's physical reaction.

"You're joking. Harry didn't tell me that!" Ron's nose wrinkled in disgust and Hermione shook her head for what must have been the upteenth time. She looked worriedly at him as she wrung her hands.

"It isn't a regular thing, Ron. She slipped him a note right before potions about a week into classes. Daphne asked if they could meet outside on the Hogwarts grounds. You'd have to ask Harry about whatever it was that they talked about."

Ron looked immensely offended, moving his mouth up and down, breaths coming out in big puffs of steam in the cold Scottish air. Hermione stood her ground, staring at Ron with the most serious expression she could conjure.

"Harry's not involved with Daphne, Ron, not to my knowledge at least. He's got this thing for Cho still." Hermione looked directly at him, her hands red from her constant rubbing. "But, I think Harry is someone that Daphne's opened up to. They seem to have a lot of things in common."

"Harry's got too much on his plate already! He can't be babysitting some crazy, snake-loving slag—"

"That's awful!"

"Well, he can't! No Slytherin's worth all this trouble—"

"Ron," Hermione inhaled deeply, pausing before she spoke to him. "I think we should give Daphne a chance with the DA. I," she spoke bit by bit, putting her hand to her chest to solemnize a promise between them, "swear that I'll take full responsibility if she betrays the DA or Harry or us."

She watched Ron as he paced back and forth. He struggled internally with this proposal.

(_A _Slytherin_! A bloody Slytherin working with us? She's going to turn us all in, I _know _it. And yet, Harry and Hermione think that she can be trusted_.)

Ron hung his head low, chin touching his chest. He felt himself shaking it slowly back and forth,

Back . . .

(_Daphne's bad._)

And forth . . .

(_Daphne's good._)

And back . . . and forth . . .

Slowly, he lifted his head up and met Hermione's eyes.

"No."

"Ron, but—"

He held up a hand to quiet her.

"When she messes up, and she _will_," Ron pointed back towards the Hog's Head, "_she_ will take full responsibility. I'll probably say 'I told you so!' to both you and Harry, and I'll make sure to hex her into the middle of the next decade too."

Hermione's face broke into one of the biggest of grins he'd ever seen. He couldn't help returning it, feeling his own eyes light up and dance at the very sight of her.

"Just so you know," Ron waggled his index finger at Hermione, "our first meeting? I'm gonna throw everything at her that I know. She'll either put up or shut up!"

Hermione held up her hands, signaling she had nothing further to add.

"Let's get back to the castle, Ron. I'm turning into an icicle!" She took Ron's elbow and together, they walked the long path back to Hogwarts.

* * *

"C'mon, _Greengrass_! Thought Slytherins were supposed to be cunning."

She was going to wipe that damn smug smile off that tall git of a redhead. Her fourth DA meeting, as the sole representative of Slytherin, and already she was learning to make friends and influence people, Slytherin-style.

Which meant, of course, that she wasn't, as the whole lot of them were prissy, arrogant, idiotic cockheads.

And "Weasley the Wanker", who insisted on being her partner for every blasted session, was managing to curse her.

A lot.

Daphne stood back up off the cushions, wiped her sweaty brow, smirked, and pointed her wand.

(_Hmm_. . . _I _do_ remember somebody's _boggart_ from third year_.)

"_Arachnis_ _Sorsia_!"

A great hairy spider, as big as a beagle, flew out of her wand, landing a mere foot from Ron.

He went deathly pale and froze.

"F-f-fuck! No . . ." Ron spat out. The only move he could make was swallowing in a great heavy gulp. "NO! S-s-t-top it! Stop it now, Greengrass!"

Daphne held her wand up, _Finite_ _Incantatem_ floating on the tip of her tongue, but halted. Her brows creased and set in a defiant line.

"No."

"GET RID OF IT!"

"No, Weasley. Do it yourself."

"FUCK YOU, GREENGRASS!"

"Do you think just yelling a bunch of vulgar swears at a Death Eater who's managed to throw something far worse at you than a spider will protect you any better? Just get rid of the damn thing yourself!"

Daphne wasn't sure if this was the smartest approach. Ron made no bones about his distrust of her. Shoving his greatest fear into his face probably wouldn't endear him to her anytime soon.

But Ron wasn't the boy she wanted. It was his sodding best friend — the one with the scar and the crazy hero complex that constantly placed him in danger's path.

So why'd she care if Ron liked her or not?

(_I don't! So there!_)

Now wasn't the time to think about stupid teenage crushes or best friends of said crushes who'd rather see her blown into tiny pieces rather than participate in their secret defense club.

With a small nod, Daphne turned her attention back to Ron. She'd never thought looks could kill, but his blue eyes burrowed into her with a ferocity that nearly shook the Slytherin out of her ratty shoes.

Ron's breathing quickened as he regarded the arachnid. He raised his wand hand, shaking so hard Daphne thought the wand would break from the vibrations. Swallowing, gathering his composure, he uttered . . .

"_Finite_ _Incantatem_!"

The spider vanished.

Daphne watched as Ron relaxed, although his mouth was trembling, along with his hands. Small beads of sweat appeared on his freckled, but very pale, forehead. He looked at Daphne with stern eyes.

She watched as his face slowly relaxed, little by little. Daphne saw the tension he'd been holding in his cheeks and the lines creasing his forehead melt away. His wand hand loosened the tight, shaky grip on the wooden stick. He hadn't taken his eyes off her the whole time.

Ron opened his mouth to say something to her, but shut it abruptly. Suddenly, he turned and walked away to meet up with Hermione at the front of the Room of Requirement.

* * *

"_Expecto_ _Patronum_!"

Silver mist . . .

"_Expectro_ _Patronum_!"

Wait! Wait. . .

(_Oh! More mist . . ._ )

"Hem, Hem!" Daphne snapped her neck to her right. Ron was smugly grinning at her, his stupid little Jack Russell Terrier stupidly barking and _more_ stupidly trotting circles around him.

(_Would Professor Snape give me detention if I stuck my wand up _his_ stupid—_)

"Can't do it, eh?" Weasley was now rocking gleefully on the balls of his feet. "Powerful bit of magic, Patronuses are!"

"Sod off, Ginger!"

His face furrowed in mock affrontedness.

"Oooh . . . such anger!"

Daphne looked around the room; it looked as if _everyone _was able to produce a full or close-to-full Patronus.

Everyone except for her and Longbottom.

(_Oh, _that's_ bloody disgraceful! As good as _Longbottom! _Wonderful!)_

She took a deep breath to try to focus on a sufficiently happy thought.

(_No. . . nuh-uh. . . . Still nothing!_)

(_And I'd already tried the first time me and Nott . . ._)

"Don't you have any happy memories or thoughts at all?" Ron asked her.

It sounded like an actual, genuine question.

There was no sarcastic edge to his voice. This new, softer tone caused Daphne to blink; Ron wasn't smirking at her. His blue eyes regarded her with a furrowed brow and tilted head. He seemed genuinely surprised.

If not a little sad . . .

She waited for him to take the piss out of her, but he didn't. She waited for him to publicize her failure all over the room. But he didn't.

Ron stepped closer to Daphne. He spoke quietly; his focus remained squarely on her.

"I've pictured loads of things, usually about Harry and Hermione or my family." He stopped to see if she was listening. "The one I used today was from fourth year." Ron and Daphne's eyes met each other's; averting her eyes, Daphne silently nodded for him to continue. "Harry and I had finally made up after the First Task, and it was just me, Hermione, and him, in our common room, drinking chocolate and sitting by the fire. I was beating Harry at chess, but he was laughing at everything I was saying." He looked away briefly, his smile touching his eyes as he dwelled on the fond memory. "And Hermione was just barely leaning against me. With a book, of course. Sometimes, it's something so small that makes you feel like a million Galleons, y'know? Does that help at all?"

Daphne looked at him, unable to keep the surprise out of her eyes. She nodded slowly and turned to her left. Carefully, she closed her eyes, and a series of vibrant images of one happy moment floated into her brain. Daphne pushed her chosen memory to the forefront of her mind. Channeling its positive energy to her wand, she opened her eyes and spoke loud and firm:

"_Expecto_ _Patronum_!"

The silver mist from her wand twisted and turned, forming a hulking blob. Charged by the improvement in her spell, Daphne poured even more emotion into the memory, focusing on the positive feelings surging through her.

The mist started solidifying more. Daphne and Ron's eyes grew large as they saw four feet with hooves planting themselves firmly to the ground, and large horns grew out of the creature's massive head. Its long tail swooped rapidly around its thick rear haunches. Despite the blurriness of the Patronus, its form became quite clear to Daphne and Ron, as the latter let out a great chortling snort and the smile that had been growing on Daphne's face turned into a disbelieving "O". She creased her brow in disgusted annoyance.

"It's . . . an ox!" Ron couldn't stop himself from falling over in laughter.

"A BLOODY COW? My Patronus is a FUCKING COW!" Daphne balled up her hands into fists and placed them squarely on her hips. "I don't believe this!"

"I-I . . ." Ron could barely talk for all his laughing. "It's just _too_ brilliant for words!"

"_Oi_!"

"I mean . . . it's so—" He started laughing again, holding his hands out to her Patronus; to Daphne's irritated surprise, her Patronus didn't falter. It didn't get stronger.

It was just lumbering there.

(_Is it chewing grass?_)

"It's so _you_, Daphne!"

"Oh hush!" It was a mild retort coming from her.

Daphne prayed desperately to Salazar Slytherin himself that the small smile spreading on her face would go unnoticed by Ron.

She looked around the room — there was a small smattering applause as the other members saw her nowhere-near-coporeal Patronus.

Potter gave her a huge grin, nodded and held his thumb up.

And she hoped, beyond all measure, that no one would ever discover that her happy thought was Ron talking to her about his.

* * *

Even though she was a Slytherin, Daphne couldn't contain her excitement to see the smile on Harry's face when she had revealed her little prank. One glance toward the Gryffindor's table showed her efforts had achieved success.

(_Maybe Potter and his idiots are finally convinced I'm bloody well on his side!_)

(_Greengrass! You're pathetic!_)

(_Shut up!_)

Daphne quelled her internal dialogue as she watched Harry pounding on the Gryffindor table in gales of uncontrollable laughter. Malfoy gave his crotch a mighty grab. The Gryffindor's eyes twinkled with pure mirth as he watched the bug-eyed Slytherin pull out the top of his newly transfigured green and silver sparkle-and-ruffle evening gown to gawk in horror at his newly formed boobs.

Malfoy, all ruffles, glitter and towering blonde beehive, bolted out of the Great Hall. Crabbe and Goyle, scantily clad in fishnets and red and blue bustier tops complete with matching thong knickers, tripped and fell on their stilettoed feet as they ran away, close on Malfoy's heels.

"GENDER BENDER BON-BONS! The most _brilliant _thing ever invented. _Ever_!" The entire Great Hall would certainly agree with Potter, the way they were applauding it; they were a right success. Daphne saw Harry hold up her note that accompanied her prank; she had charmed it to allow running commentary through the show:

"_Potter — you _must_ keep your eyes on these baby snakes…Something may be coming around the _bend. . . ."

"_Expect to see some _changes_ around here, Potter — today at breakfast, when the owls get here, especially!"_

"_You'll notice Draco dressed in a fetching Wang knock-off, sure to put the spring in any tall, dark, and horny wizard's step! The ruffles bring out his eyes!"_

"_Bet you didn't know his kink for . . . _SPARKLES!"

It hadn't been easy to convince the twins that a Slytherin needed their help to pull off a world-class prank on a world-class dickhead like Malfoy. In fact, it had taken approximately one-tenth of a one-hundred, twenty-five Galleon blackmailing scheme involving some very provocative photos of a couple of Slytherin seventh years taken in the Quidditch changing rooms.

(_Pfft! A girl must find a way to make _some_ money! And to rein in any unruly Slytherin boys!_)

But oh! The end result had made it all worthwhile.

Daphne chanced glances over to the Gryffindor table, watching Potter's reaction as Malfoy and the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad swapped genders. There were even others in her house, Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini in particular, who were desperately seeking books or other objects behind which they could hide their own amusement.

Ron and Hermione couldn't stop laughing either. Daphne looked at them, and saw Ron, laughing and grinning like a mad hatter. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders, watching as Ron smiled and shrugged his.

* * *

"We're_ in_!"

"Like hell you are!"

"You need as much help as you can get."

"No, Daphne," Harry shook his head vehemently. Daphne wasn't fussed by Harry's clearly growing impatience.

(_Stupid wanker doesn't even know this is for his own _bloody _good!_)

"You stay here. Same goes to you lot as well — Luna, Neville, and Ginny. . . ."

A loud chorus of protests followed.

"Let me tell you something." Daphne Greengrass stormed toward Ron and Harry. Hermione held out her hand, trying to appease the angry Slytherin.

"This _entire_ _year_, I have worked my arse off trying to get you lot to trust me! And you still don't! _Fine_! Fuck you all! I'm bloody flying there on broom or hippogriff or whatever!" She shoved Harry and Ron squarely in their chests with all the strength she could muster in her too-skinny arms. "I'll bloody show you I'm just as good as you are!"

"_Daphne_! For the love of Godric, that's not why you're not coming with us." Harry's temper got the better of him, and he grabbed her by the shoulders to restrain her. "They aren't either." Harry gestured toward the other three DA members. "It's too dangerous—"

"But you'll drag them into it?" Daphne waved at Ron and Hermione. "Unbelievable! What the hell was the DA all about, eh? Just more Gryffindor grandstanding, Potter?"

"She's right."

(_Huh? I am?_)

Everyone looked at Neville Longbottom, who turned his head to Harry, Ron and Hermione. "This is what the DA was all about, Harry. Fighting him — You-Know-Who. We know it's real now. We want to stand by you." Neville squared his shoulders, head held high. "We'll be there, no matter what."

Daphne nodded her head once, as if the matter was settled. Harry violently shook his head; his patience had finally run out.

"Fine! We don't have time to argue. We need to get brooms—"

"So, everyone who can't fly," Ron started, "needs to stay put. Like you, Greengrass."

"Like you can kiss my arse, Weasley."

"That won't be necessary," Luna spoke calmly, halting their argument. Everyone turned to look at her. She was pointing her finger into the forest. Only Harry and Neville seemed to be able to see what she was pointing at. "Thestrals!" Harry exclaimed.

"We can't fly those barmy creatures!" Ron said in loud disbelief.

"Thestrals? How're we gonna stay on if we can't see the blasted things?" Daphne spoke up.

"We're going to have to make do!" shouted Harry. He must have swung up on one of them, because Daphne saw him sitting on air, as if he was floating on something.

Gulping profusely, Daphne let Luna guide Ron and her to one as Neville helped Hermione and Ginny.

"This is so weird," Daphne muttered to herself, looking down at the space between her legs.

"You know you need to slow down your spells." Ron leaned toward her after both of them were mounted on a Thestral.

"So you and Potter keep telling me."

"I'm just saying!" Ron rubbed his eyes with the pads of his thumbs. "You're too quick with your wand—"

"Something you know tons about, eh, Weasley?"

"And," Ron continued, glaring at her, "you just end up blowing up a bookshelf instead of your opponent! You've got to—"

"Slow down! I heard you the first time!"

Ron found himself desperately hoping that Daphne and the rest of the DA remembered Harry's lessons as they took flight toward the Department of Mysteries.

* * *

**A/N: **For clarification — Daphne will not hook up with any of the Trio in this "universe". This story does track much of HBP's plot, but there may be minor plot alterations where I take a liberty or two with the storyline. Thanks to my beta TinCat -- the originally posted prologue didn't really reflect her efforts at my lack of grammar skills. And thanks to Solstice Muse for helping me find a beta. And to all other Ron-friendly writers out there, who did inspire my characterization of Ron in this work.

Please let me know what you think in a review, and any tips for improving my writing will be greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter 1: The Snake and the Lion

**A/N:** Thank you so much to my reviewers and readers. Keep the hits coming! Once again: I own nothing. I just wanted to play with these characters a little bit. Thanks to my beta, Tincat, for looking over major grammatical errors. If y'all catch something, let me know too. And thanks to Solstice Muse for helping me with my beta search and pointers for editing. Also, you might notice some minor chapter-by-chapter inconsistencies with little bits of punctuation, formatting . . . that's me, going over the work . . . again. I apologize, and I hope to get this straightened out over the next couple of weeks.

This chapter contains strong language.

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Snake and the Lion**

A Slytherin _never _admits a mistake. Never apologizes. Never grovels.

So why the hell was she here?

Daphne Greengrass was dead certain that one Mr. Ronald Weasley, friend of Harry Potter, lover of Muggles and Muggle-borns, and hater of all Slytherins, would throw a fit upon discovering he was sharing the Burrow with her.

Although she was the sole Slytherin who deigned to participate in Dumbledore's Army . . .

(_Well, a girl must know how to protect herself!_)

Even though she wasn't the one who had "SNEAK" written in great purple blotches across her face . . .

(_A Ravenclaw! Really!_)

And didn't she volunteer to go with them to the Department of Mysteries?

(_Well, punched Pott-_. . ._ I mean, Harry and Weasley, more like_.)

Now, two or so weeks later, she approached his room at the Burrow with great trepidation. If she hoped to survive this Dumbledore-imposed exile at the Burrow _and_ have a chance to get into Potter's hot little heroic pants (e_rr _. . . _scratch that!_) Daphne knew she had to get Potter (_I mean, _Harry!) . . .

She would have to get _Harry_, Ron and Hermione to _like_ her.

Ew.

She'd stand a better chance of making Malfoy lick Harry's boots than getting Ron Weasley — hell, _any_ Weasley — on her side.

But, Daphne reasoned, since she had fought alongside a certain stubborn, foolish, clumsy redhead, maybe the idiot might give her a chance.

Not bloody likely.

Harry was a _bit_ different, though. He'd been furious, positively livid, when she had approached him just after their first potions lesson. That was nerve-wracking enough.

(_All that blasted yelling!_)

Plus, she had to deal with keeping her little _tête-a-tête_ away from prying Slytherin eyes.

Their second potions class came, and Daphne had once again screwed up her resolve to get Harry to understand her. She had told him to meet near the half-giant groundskeeper's cabin. Shakily, nervously, she had jumped in, with no planned speech, or even idea, of what she was going to say to him.

When she had told him a little more about her past, he had at least stopped looking at her like she had a Venomous Tentacula sprouting from her face.

All it took, she had reckoned, was a little push from Hermione Granger, and _voila _— the Hog's Head and Dumbledore's Army were suddenly within her reach!

She and Hermione weren't best friends or any such nonsense like that. Back in third year, Daphne had noticed Hermione's sudden batty attitude and watched as Harry and Ron had ignored her. The Mudblood had alternated between falling asleep on top of her Ancient Runes text and yelling at every passing student who dared enter her personal space. Daphne had seen the pathetic creature snoring quietly into her parchment. Sneaking away so as not to wake her (_I mean,_ _the girl _might _actually fail a bloody class!_), Daphne had backtracked suddenly, seized by . . . an odd compulsion.

Maybe it was the memory of Hermione crying by herself in the dark corner of the library a couple of days ago. Maybe it was remembering she was one of the petrified students from last year. Daphne didn't know. But she'd woken the thing up and tossed her some notes from their shared classes that Hermione had missed.

It was a month into their fourth year that Hermione had walked up to Daphne while in the library and suggested studying together. Thus, they'd struck up a mutually beneficial studying aquaintance-ship.

Daphne thought back to the beginning of their fifth year, as she slowly climbed up the first set of steps at the Burrow. She remembered the compassion in Hermione's eyes when she had opened up to the Gryffindor prefect about Cedric's death at the beginning of last year. Hermione was only the second other person — of any house — with whom she'd discussed those feelings.

And she was fairly sure Hermione Granger was the reason Ron shut his big mouth about her participating in Harry's little covert "study group".

(_Judgmental prat!_)

She would have to send her a thank-you note. Or something.

(_Not bloody likely!_)

Of course, joining the DA meant that Ron Weasley had felt the need to watch her like a bloody hawk. And he had demanded to be paired with her every class! _And_ he had managed to hex the living hell out of her _every_ _single_ _blasted_ _time_!

(_Closet sadist!_)

She pushed the last thought aside as she found herself facing Ron's bedroom door. Balling up her fist, she paused before knocking, harsh gulps drying her mouth.

(_Just do it, you bloody coward!_)

She knocked, rather weakly.

"Who's it?" The male voice was soft and muffled.

"It's Greengrass, Weasley."

"Um." A pause. "Okay." She rolled her eyes and turned the doorknob.

Ron Weasley had always been a tall kid. Lean, but tending towards the gawky side. He had this laid-back oafishness about him that some found charming.

(_Granger, I suppose!_)

Others found his physical appearance wholly awkward and unattractive.

(_Yours truly!_)

Now, lying on his bed, on his stomach, thumbing through what Daphne supposed was the latest issue of _Quidditch Quarterly_, Daphne thought Weasley looked rather like a lion in his den. He eyed her with an intriguing mixture of curiosity and annoyance.

"So," he began, tossing the magazine onto his desk, "why're you here? In _my_ house? In _my _room?"

"What? You scared that I might try to corrupt you?"

Ron shivered with disgust. Daphne rolled her eyes.

She did so much of that lately.

"Really, Weasley, am I that repulsive? There are a few boys at school that might disagree with you on that account."

Ron held up his hand, wincing in exaggerated disgust.

"_Godric_! Stop, for the love of Merlin, before you say anything more!"

Daphne smirked, and sat down in the chair nearest Ron's bed. He sat up, crossed his legs, and leaned back on his arms. Daphne couldn't help but note the long, sinewy scars that climbed along his limbs. When she realized she was staring, Daphne immediately shifted her eyes upward.

"Well, Weasley, returning to your original question," Daphne spoke as she lifted her hand. "Dumbledore said, one," she held up a finger, "that he's concerned about my well-being, when left to my own devices, and probably thinks your Gryffidor goodness will rub off on me or something. Two," she said, her next finger shooting up, "I was an active and known participant in the Department of Mysteries, which, as with your family, puts me dead in the sights of my more devious, Dark Arts-loving classmates and their kin—"

"Slytherin is pretty much Death Eater Central," he said dryly.

"And three," she pressed on, ignoring him, "Miss Proctor's a squib and there are two other girls in her home that don't do magic, like at all, and, as much as that old cow resents me, I don't really fancy a Death Eater attack on them. I'd prefer as little attention drawn to them as possible."

Not that she'd admit that she actually _enjoyed_ being around his family.

Since she _did not_.

"So, you've _slithered_ your way into the Burrow then, eh?" She narrowed her eyes.

(_And he's supposed to be the funny one?_)

"Look, I can tell you that I don't want to be here as much as you don't want me to be here."

"Great! We agree on something!"

"For the love of—" Daphne drew herself back, and shut her eyes. She spoke in a low tone that she hoped emphasized her frustration with the git.

"I don't want to fight you." He cocked an eyebrow skeptically. She smirked. "I need an opponent that doesn't look like he'd blow over if a flobberworm farted in his direction."

"Hey!"

"I said _no_ fighting." She held her palms up facing him. "Anyways," Daphne cleared her throat, "I did want to say something to you."

"Well, go on then. Or has a snake got your tongue?" The corner of Ron's stupid mouth turned upward.

Glaring at him and questioning exactly _why _she was doing this, Daphne cleared her throat again. "I came up here to tell you, erm . . ." she paused, rolling her eyes. "ImsorryandthatIwaswrongaboutyou."

She cringed as her tongue turned into pebbles in her mouth.

"Ex-excuse me?" he said, with mock stuttering innocence, "I didn't quite catch that. Into my good ear now." Ron leaned forward, feigning impairment, and pushed his left ear forward with his finger. Daphne gritted her teeth.

"I said I'm sorry and that I was wrong about you, dammit!"

"Bloody hell, where's a parade when you need one? A _Slytherin_ apologizes! Raise the banner—"

"Merlin's _balls_, you're an insufferable git, y'know that?!" Daphne was storming toward the door, until she heard Ron chuckle. She paused, hand resting on the knob.

"Okay, okay! I'll stop, okay." He held up his hands in surrender. "_Uncle_. Sit down. Go on and tell me what do you mean you were wrong, though? I am a bit curious about this you 'being wrong about me' business."

Daphne sighed, and sat back down in the chair. She cleared her throat.

"R-Ron," she said shakily. Ron's eyes bulged. That was the first time she had used his proper name. She pushed her hands down in the air, steeling herself for the nonsense she was about to admit. "Ron. I was wrong about you . . . being a coward. And stupid."

She let out a breath.

He crossed his arms.

"Anyone ever tell you you've got a way with words?" he said, sarcasm dripping from his sneering grin. Daphne inhaled as she thought about how she could start again.

"You were different than I thought you'd be during the DA."

"What d'you mean?" Ron asked. He raised an eyebrow. Daphne rubbed her eyes with the pads of her thumbs.

"Well, _Ron_, you insisted, from that first blasted class that you would pair up with me."

"Right."

"Because you didn't trust me."

"Yeah."

"And you'd rather deal with me yourself than have me hex somebody else."

"Of course! You're - a - _bloody_ - _Slytherin_!" Ron exclaimed. He bobbed his head at each word to emphasize his point.

Daphne's patience with the boy was wearing thin. Her voice started growing higher.

"_And_," she emphasized, "you wanted to throw absolutely everything at me that was at your disposal. I mean, you hit me with some powerful spells at times, Weasley. You were sneaky, conniving, and tricky." Daphne folded her arms together in smug contemplation of the redhead sitting before her. "Never knew you had it in you."

"So? What are you getting at?"

"You were testing me."

"Maybe."

"Why, though? What was the point? If I got pissed off enough, I could have run back to my housemates, or Umbridge, and told them everything."

Ron looked down at his bedspread. Daphne noted the fading Chudley Cannons pattern, the threads sticking out haphazardly around the hem and the players as they zoomed around the sky on the blanket.

"Guess I didn't really think of it like that," he mumbled, his eyes still focused on his blanket. "I needed to watch you, since I thought that you were there as a spy for them already. 'S'not like I'd actually thought you'd be there on your own."

Daphne narrowed her eyes, nodding slowly, considering Ron's statement.

"You changed your mind about me, then?"

He shrugged. "Well, since that damn Ravenclaw friend of Cho's ended up with 'SNEAK' written across her face, then, er . . . sure."

"You still don't trust me do you?" Daphne said, shaking her head. Ron brow dropped and he seemed troubled.

"Maybe — er — just, well . . ." he stammered. "Okay, so I don't. Not yet, at least." his face softened. "I'm better about you than at the start of fifth year, that's for sure."

Daphne crinkled her face, annoyed.

"That's like the lowest possible bar, Weasley!"

"Hey, what do you expect? It's a start."

Daphne threw her head back on the edge of the chair.

"Maybe," she said, bringing the back of her hand to her eyes and rubbing them. "That's where we need to be, I guess."

(_All that work, and it's still not enough for this moron!_)

She shut her eyes and took a couple of breaths to calm the tremors rumbling just below her surface.

(_I'll never be able to convince him_ . . .)

Without warning, Daphne felt her frustration at the idiot breaking through the barrier of cynical disinterest that she had employed for many years in dealing with her fellow housemates. Pounding her fisted hands on her knees, Daphne thrust her head forward and looked directly into the idiot's stubborn, freckly face, feeling her blood reddening her cheeks. "What more can I do!" She threw her hands up in the air. "What the bloody hell can I do to get you to see that I'm not lying?" She spread her arms out and turned her head back and forth, looking wildly about her.

She wasn't getting anywhere with this boy.

"Hey, it hasn't been a walk on the Quidditch pitch for me either. Trusting someone like you is like asking me to believe Hermione's skived off class, snogged Malfoy in a broom closet, and is planning to try out for Chaser."

"In other words, bloody impossible."

"Yeah! You've got the measure of that pretty quick for a little snake!"

Daphne was now completely discouraged with the entire situation. She felt angry that her little plan of coming up here to get into Harry's best friend's good graces was falling apart, and trying to talk to this stupid, poor, stupid, arrogant . . . _stupid_. . . .

"AARRGH!" She threw her hands up in the air, and stomped away from the bed. "Why the hell did I even think, for one second I'd be able to get along with you!" Daphne grabbed the back of the chair she had been sitting in, very nearly tossing it toward the boy's head.

Instead, Daphne violently threw the chair back under the desk. She stopped and looked at him. "Fine, Weasley. You're right! I'm a slag, a no-good sneaky cow, a . . . a stupid, greasy-haired evil witch that means to kill all of you and your friends despite the fact that I can barely produce a Patronus!" She pointed at him, her little, dark eyes wild with fury. "And I needed _your_ _help_ to get my ox to even look like a bloody ox! And you laughed at my prank on Umbridge's brown-nosing little tossers! _And_ you kept telling me what I had to do right so I could fight with you stupid, arrogant kitty-cats so your best friend could rescue a serial killer for no good reason that I can think of!" Daphne panted hard, anger pouring out of her, unleashed by this . . . this _prat_ who'd never see her as anything but Slytherin trash.

(_Don't you bloody lose it, Greengrass! Keep it together!_)

Ron stood up quickly off his bed. He walked closer to Daphne, standing straight up, attempting the most intimidating pose he could muster.

"What do you_ expect_ from me, Greengrass? A reward for all your hard work and good efforts? A bloody _merit _badge?" He snorted derisively. "You'd better realize that it'll take a helluva lot more than what you've done this past year!"

"You . . . you . . . UGH!" Daphne walked over to his door, punching it once with a balled fist as hard as she could.

"Hey! What the bloody hell?"

"I was willing to fucking _die_ at the Ministry, Ron!" Daphne shouted at him. "I was willing to die because I believed that what Harry said was right! _Voldemort_ is back! And he's bad! Voldemort killed Cedric, and he's the most vile, evil monster that ever existed and he _should_ die!

"The fucking _second_ I chose to go with you, hell, let me go _all _the way back to the beginning of last year! From the moment I opened my mouth to Harry and told him I _believed_ him, I turned my back on the most powerful _and_ the most dangerous students in my house. The ones who have mummies and daddies who report back to _Voldemort_ himself!"

Daphne paced around the room; she was a stick of dynamite, and Ron had lit her fuse good and proper. Hell or high water, he was going to be present now that she'd fully exploded.

"And all I wanted to say to you, Weasley, is that _I was wrong_ about you! All my ruddy housemates were wrong about you," she said, arms spread as far as they could reach. "You may not have a Knut to your name, or decent clothes, and you might be a tall, grotty-looking arse, but _damn_, I've never seen _anyone_ as loyal and foolishly brave as you and Granger and Harry. Or your little brat of a sister, or Loony, or Longbottom even! But you . . ." Daphne furiously pointed at him. "No one has ever helped me feel I succeeded at something like you did when you taught me how to do a Patronus!" Daphne breathed faster than normal, but she inhaled and exhaled in deep, quick breaths. "And now, I hate that I have to work so hard for your approval, when you already have mine!"

Daphne couldn't believe she said it. It was certainly true, yes. But she felt . . . weaker.

She felt suddenly very naked standing in front of Ron.

She _really_ didn't like exposing her soft, white underbelly like this.

Ron had stopped upon hearing her last sentence. His right hand was in his hair, pulling it backwards. His left was balled up on his hip, but there was no aggression in his stance.

He seemed to be considering something.

"I have your approval?"

Eyes planted on the floor, Daphne shook her head in small, swift motions.

(_Really! You're truly an idiot, Greengrass!_)

She looked at him . . . and nodded reluctantly, pursing her lips and crossing arms.

She still wanted to smack him.

Rubbing the corners of his mouth, Ron walked to his right, then left, pacing slowly in front of her.

"This is what you wanted to tell me earlier?" Daphne looked at her feet.

"Not in so many words," she said, mumbling.

He nodded with a serious expression coming over him Suddenly, a sort of flash moved across his face.

Ron's eyes went round and he stuck out bottom lip as he shrugged.

"Maybe I've been a bit harsh. . . ." His nose crinkled up as he spoke.

Daphne, bent over in disbelief, gaped at him.

"_YOU_ _THINK_? Un-_fucking_-believable!" She spun around, throwing her head and hands up in the air.

"Look," Ron held up his hands, palms facing Daphne. "We're not perfect, okay?" Ron wriggled his finger between them. "But, y'know, given everything over the past year, and I s'pose you're going to be staying here for a while, we might manage or something, yeah?"

"So? What do you suggest we do now? Do we dare shake hands and watch existence as we know it implode?"

Ron chuckled. Much to her dismay, Daphne found herself joining him.

She was surprised, as evidently he was, that their animosity could somehow rearrange itself into such a mirthful response.

Soon, their chuckling gave way to great belly laughs. Daphne couldn't stop her eyes from watering, and she brought the heel of her hand up to wipe away at her face.

"Oh, Godric!" Ron exclaimed. "I'm laughing with a Slytherin!"

"Is it official? Has the world ended?"

Ron looked at his watch.

"Yup! Nine past seven. The moment when hell froze!"

"And kneazles flew out of our arses!"

"Or Crumple-Horned Snorkacks." Ron and Daphne looked at each other with shockingly surprised expressions smacking them on the faces.

They were ribbing each other.

They shook their heads.

Daphne thought that this was the time. This was her moment, her opportunity.

She held out her hand.

Weasley just looked at her.

"Oh go on!" Daphne nudged her hand closer to Ron. "I don't shake so hard I'll break your fragile bones." Ron seemed to regard her hand with a worried, almost _anxious_ expression.

"N-no," he started shakily. "S'not that. Not that at all."

"What do you mean?" Ron looked past Daphne's shoulder and kept shaking his head.

"Ju-just, I'm fine, 'k?" Ron held up his hands, pushing on the air between him and Daphne as he made for his bed. "I'm — we're okay, okay?"

Daphne's brow creased. She put her hand down. She didn't want to pressure him if he wasn't ready to touch her.

(_Man enough to go to battle, but scared of shaking a girl's hand? Pathetic tosser!_)

Suddenly, something _very_ improper popped into her head. And Daphne, being someone lacking any impulse control, blurted it out.

"I guess it'd be different if I were Granger."

Never had she seen ears turn red so rapidly as Ron's did at that moment.

Fleetingly, she wondered what it would take to make his head explode.

Ron just spluttered. "Y-you'd better watch what you say, Greengrass. S'not like that."

Daphne winced internally. Of course, she'd gone and mucked up whatever had just been made right. She needed to backtrack, so she made an effort to soften her own voice.

But what came out of her was absolutely _not_ what she'd intended.

"You should screw up your Gryffindor courage up, man, and tell her how you feel."

Ron looked outraged.

"Just because we've agreed _not_ to kill each other doesn't bloody mean we're swapping stories about girls or whatever. We're not talking about this, and that's that!"

Daphne was a smart girl, despite what Ron might've thought about her. So she was perfectly capable of taking a hint and dropping whatever touchy subject of conversation was currently taking place.

Except for today.

"I only say you should tell her, Ron, because I'm ninety-percent positive she feels the _exact_, and I bloody mean _exact, _same way for you."

(_Only Salazar knows why!_)

Ron looked torn between wanting to continue ranting at Daphne and wanting to ask her how she knew.

"What makes you say that?"

Apparently the latter won out.

"She looks at you different than with Harry. She's smiles differently when you're in the room. And when you two row, it's all about you. She ignores everyone. Including Mr. Boy-Who-Lived himself."

He seemed to contemplate this.

"Okay. So, answer my question now. How long have you fancied Harry?"

The question took Daphne's breath away, and not in the good sense.

"_What_?"

Ron rolled his eyes and smirked.

"How long," he pointed to his watch, "have you," he pointed at her, "fancied," he drew a heart on his chest with his fingers, "Harry?" He sat back with a triumphant grin and folded his arms.

"What in the name of Godric's _bum_ _warts_ makes you think I fancy Harry?" Daphne's voice sounded unconvincingly shrill in her own head.

"I don't think, I know, Greengrass," Ron said, pointing to his head. "I've thought you did for a while now. It's got to be part of the reason you started talking to him this year, and why you joined up with the DA, _and_ why you absolutely _had_ to come with us to the Ministry. I'm right, aren't I?"

(_The smug git!_)

Daphne's pointed her dark eyes at the Gryffindor.

(_Why not just give him the truth instead of making up some lame bullshit excuse he's not gonna believe anyway?_)

Daphne sighed.

"Fine. Yes, all right? I've fancied Harry for ages. Satisfied?"

"So, all of this was just to get into his pants?" Daphne fumed at Ron. Sure, he guessed her motivations for most of her actions last year — well the ones that focused solely on Potter.

But, standing and shouting at Ron seemed to have shaken the Slytherin to her very core. Namely, why had she insisted so vehemently to go with the other six to the Ministry?

Was it just a continuation in her quest to make Harry finally notice her? Or, was there — even in the smallest degree — something a bit more going on in her head?

Certainly, there were those _feelings _she had had when Cedric was killed. A boy that she never knew, killed so young. . . .

Daphne kicked at the floorboards in Weasley's bedroom, brow furrowed and mouth frowning. Her foot had found a plank that made a squeaky sound every time she touched it.

Daphne shrugged. "That was the initial plan I had, okay? Joining the DA and all, playing that prank on Malfoy and the others . . . I can admit to that, at least." Daphne's head bowed low, but she lifted her eyes to Ron. "But, I . . . dunno. Harry—" Daphne coughed. Using Harry's name, as if they had been friends for ages, could be somehow jarring for her at times. "I liked talking to him too, all right?" Daphne brought her eyes to the floor. "I just — it was nice talking to someone who didn't have parents either."

She saw Ron nod slowly. She shrugged again, apparently at a loss of what to say.

"I'm not sure what got me so angry with you three right before we flew to the Ministry. I—" Daphne stopped, words at the tip of her tongue.

(_Should we _really _go into this now?_)

Hanging her head in resignation, Daphne grimaced. She then exhaled and continued talking.

"I really hated that, in that moment, you, Harry and Granger didn't want me — specifically _me _— to go with you because you still didn't trust me. I hated that feeling. It made me furious. And I wanted to punch Harry and you both. Hard." Daphne looked at him, shrugging again. "I sort of had this _really stupid_ idea that somehow, you lot would've seen that I actually _meant_ to join the DA and I wanted to learn to fight, and I was against Voldemort and everything he stands for." Daphne stared at Ron, her own expression absent of any anger or annoyance.

He looked at her, curiously waiting for what she was going to say.

Daphne continued.

"It made me feel good that Harry said that the four of us weren't coming at all to the Ministry. And it _really_ made me feel good when you started nagging me about my shitty defensive spell work. I actually thought that you finally accepted me. Which," she gestured towards him, "I now know that was wrong."

Ron swallowed, his Adam's Apple bobbing vigorously. He crinkled his brow and wrinkled up his nose; he looked like he was debating what to say.

After some time, Ron blinked and let out a breath.

"I'm sorry." Ron looked up at Daphne.

"You're sorry?" Daphne asked slowly.

"Yeah, okay? I, well, for today. For not believing you and everything. For last year, all right?" Ron had his hands behind his back. Daphne, for once, didn't push her luck with the Gryffindor.

Daphne knew that this was about as good as it got with Ron.

Particularly for her, a slimy, rather shady Slytherin girl.

"And I know we're not perfect—"

"Not saying we are or anything."

"But we're going to have to find some way to hang around each other—"

"Without strangling ourselves in the process," Daphne finished, her hands in the air.

Ron and her looked at each other, and nodded; some tacit agreement between the two of them had been sealed.

"When's Harry coming up here?" Daphne asked. Ron rolled his eyes, but not before she noticed a sly little grin spreading across his face.

"I think Mum said next week. We should be expecting Hermione in a couple of days."

Daphne nodded. "Well, that should be fun."

"Don't you_ dare_, you sneak!"

Daphne threw her hands up. She couldn't stop the giggling-like sound from coming out of her mouth.

"Don't worry, Weasley." She ran her index finger and thumb across her mouth in a zipping motion. "Secret's safe with me. I promise." She mimed throwing something over her shoulder.

Ron's mouth twitched.

"Dunno if I'll promise the same with yours." He smirked at Daphne's reddening, puffed-out face. "I'm his best mate. Can't let him run around without warning him trouble's ahead!"

Daphne was about to show him how right he was about her being 'trouble' when she stopped and regarded his glinting eyes. They weren't hard or suspicious, in fact, Daphne reckoned . . .

He was teasing her. Albeit _not_ really in an amusing way or anything.

But he was actually teasing her.

Daphne reached over to his bed and found a pillow. Quickly taking it into her hand, she walloped him on the side of the head. Static from the pillow caught on Ron's red hairs, making them stand straight up, crackling with small bursts of energy.

"Oi!"

Laughing hard, Daphne socked him again.

"Is that's how it's gonna be, Greengrass?"

"That's exactly how it's gonna be!" She turned and ran out of the doorframe, turning back around to see Ron grabbing a couple more pillows for ammunition.

"_PHHHLBT_!" Daphne stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry at him.

When he looked up at the sound, Ron caught sight of Daphne's two-finger salute and her back as she ran downstairs.


	3. Chapter 2: Pushing Ron

**A/N: **This chapter was inspired by my favorite new show of the season . . . Pushing Daisies. Anna Friel and Jim Dale are _love_!

This chapter contains strong language and non-explicit, violent imagery.

I own nothing, and I would like to thank JKR for creating this world. I also thank my beta, Tincat for her input and revisions.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Pushing Ron**

There was a phrase for days like this, a muggle phrase Hermione had once taught him:

(_When bloody pigs fly . . ._)

And so it went, Ronald Bilius Weasley. Listening to a Slytherin. Who was staying at the Burrow.

(_Damn that Daphne!_)

Ron's thoughts, the ones he had regarding himself, kept coming back to her words from three days ago,

(_"You should screw up your Gryffindor courage, man, and tell her how you feel."_)

They kept running through his brain. Ron started to wonder if the only way to get the voice to shut up would be to actually follow its advice.

Otherwise, he'd never be able to rest.

(_Well, between _that_ and these bloody inexplicable nightmares, rest is something you've been in short supply of lately._)

(_Which certainly explains _this_ constant argument with yourself._)

Ron shook his head, slapping at his brow with one large hand. He threw himself back into his bed, running his hands up and down his scar-ridden arms. Madam Pomfrey had supplied him with a generous amount of Dr. Ubbly's Oblivious Unction, and had kept both him and Hermione in the hospital ward at Hogwarts for a spell. The ointment had helped with decreasing the physical aspects of his scars. Although they were still noticeable, Ron was at least happy that he no longer felt _physically _self-conscious about exposing his limbs.

No, the real trouble for Ron happened later.

He'd been home for less than a week after the term had ended when he started having troubles with his sleeping. Never had he had such vivid dreams or nightmares.

Then he had remembered Madam Pomfrey's warnings regarding his injuries.

("_I want you to pay _careful heed_, Mr. Weasley. Thoughts _can_ leave the deepest scars. Now whether that means you might suffer from physical scarring — as, quite obviously, you have — or emotional scarring, or an unfortunate combination of both, has yet to be seen_.")

The images were always accompanied by some other sensory experience. The smells were awful. There were times the odors — the nastiest being the rotted breaths, decayed corpses, and the smell of fresh blood on a body — were too much for him. He had woken himself up just this morning believing he was surrounded by blood, bile, and every imaginable human waste. He'd been able to make it to the bathroom, gagging the whole way for several minutes. He had even lost his appetite for breakfast; now, he could feel his stomach's rumbling impatience over the lack of sustenance.

But there was the touching issue as well. Ron had found that when he'd got a hug from his mum, a slap or punch from Ginny after he'd ribbed her good and proper, or (_and this hurt the worst for him_) a bone-crushing embrace from Hermione, their tactile actions would send his body into terrifying seizures. Sometimes, these fits would manifest themselves as full tremors, and Ron would bolt for the bathroom to jump into the shower and calm himself down. Other times, he would go all rigid and stock still, as if someone had just cast _Petrificus_ _Totalus_ upon him.

Well…this was what happened according to his family when they would witness this. When he would finally come to, he found he had no memory of the seconds in which he froze.

These fits didn't happen often, but they did seem to appear when he made skin-on-skin contact with another person. They worsened if the contact was accompanied by a strong burst of emotion. Thankfully, he had no problem with using towels, blankets, pillows or sticks in proxy of such physical displays of affection or horsing around.

He could still walk around, the same old jovial Ron and roughhouse and play as before. He would just nap whenever he could.

Just so long as he could avoid actually touching other people as much as possible, he'd be fine. He wouldn't turn into the quivering mass of shakes and minor drooling.

Using his finger, Ron traced over the scars that twisted and turned all over his arms.

It had become somewhat of a ritual for Ron, remembering his 'contributions' in the battle at the Ministry.

(_What contributions, Weasley?_)

(_Oi! Sod off!_)

(_Now you're telling yourself to sod off?_)

Ron's own mind appeared to be staging a revolt against his constitution.

(_Figures that even _I_ think I'm a blithering idiot._)

It was at times like this, lying in his violently orange bedroom, that he could feel his confidence ebbing away. Everything he had worked on last year, from the DA, to Quidditch — hell, even being paired with Greengrass in the DA meetings — it was all slipping away as he faced the aftermath of the Ministry.

First, he'd let a bloody Death Eater hit him with some sort of Disorientation Hex, which left him even _more _of a gibbering pillock than normal.

Then he had managed to nearly strangle himself with the brains from the Department of Mystery's tank. Yes, he had been confused. Sure, he hadn't been in control of his actions; that Death Eater certainly made sure he was completely confounded. But still, he had trained and prepared with Harry and Hermione, as well as the rest of the DA.

And yet, he couldn't be there, whole and uninjured, for Harry, not when his best friend needed him.

He couldn't bloody protect Hermione. _His Hermione! _

He couldn't stop Dolohov from. . .

Ron gulped, shaking his head into his hand as it ran through his hair.

(_You bloody, useless, pathetic coward . . ._)

(_Don't do this._)

Ron stared in front of him, eyes planted firmly on the closet across his bed.

Could he do it?

Ron's brow creased as he, once again, remembered Daphne's words.

("_You should screw up your Gryffindor courage, man, and tell her how you feel._")

Ron couldn't believe that he was actually, for once in his life, seriously listening to advice given to him — unsolicited — by a Slytherin girl he had barely started trusting.

But maybe Daphne, even though she's, well. . . _her_, was indeed right.

He _was_ a Gryffindor, after all.

Maybe he could bloody well endure telling Hermione the truth . . . the truth about everything . . . his feelings and his dreams.

And, as his thoughts continued to linger on the two teenage girls, he couldn't help his mind drifting back to Daphne's words, spoken in the heat of their fight just days ago.

("_I hate that I have to work so hard for your approval, when you already have mine._")

Ron looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock in the morning. The sun had been beating through his orange curtains for a few hours already. He decided it was time to grace the Burrow with his presence. Ron threw on a pair of jeans a clean shirt (_well, mostly clean, judging by the smell of them_) and made his way downstairs.

* * *

"Daphne, could you be a dear and get the white and yellow tea set off the top of the shelf? Fleur, the pie is done; please take it out of the oven. Hermione, grab those napkins and butter knives and bring then to the table, please? Thank you." 

Ron's mother was bustling in the kitchen, along with her helpers, Daphne, Hermione, and Fleur Delacour. Ron, still in a bit of a shock from his mum saying "Daphne" and "dear" in the same sentence, could smell the thick meaty aroma of shepherd's pie and fresh bread.

"Oh, where are zee pot'olders, s'il te plâit?" Fleur asked brightly.

"Just over there," Mrs. Weasley spoke to Bill's fiancée. Ron noted the slight tightness in his mum's voice.

Ron could hardly remember a time when Fleur's 'Veela-ness' _didn't_ affect him. He had always been so susceptible to the Veela's specific brand of magic, moreso than Harry or the other Weasley men.

However, today, Ron found that he was far too tired and too pissed off to be affected by Fleur's charms.

"Mum!" Ron shouted over the din, "when's it ready?"

"Soon. Oh, Ron, dear, go grab the plates and set the table, please?" Ron groaned and glared at his mother.

She had asked him nicely, no doubt.

But lack of sleep and violent nightmares did not make Ron a happy bloke.

"Aww, _Mum . . ._c'mon! Don't wanna . . ."

His mum turned and faced him, fists balled up on her hips, brow dropping dangerously low on her face.

Despite the warning signs, Ron persisted.

"You've bloody got _loads_ of help in there already. I mean, 's not like I fought Death Eaters or practically snuffed it . . . oh wait," Ron looked upwards, fingers rubbing his chin in a thoughtful manner. He thrust his finger in midair indignantly. "I did do that!" he spoke, sarcasm dripping from his words. Ron crossed his arms defiantly.

His own internal voice was telling him to just shut the _bloody hell_ up. And he knew he was courting danger by snapping at his mum.

Looking at her, Ron knew he had dipped his toe in hostile waters. He watched his mum's nostrils flare like they would right before she'd start in on any of her kids.

"You're _so_ grown up to take on those crazed maniacs on your own? You're grown up enough to help out around here, _young man_." She emphasized the last two words with narrowed eyes and a slowly reddening face.

Grumbling under his breath, Ron backed down and decided not to push his luck any further. He quickly made his way over to the plates and brought them to the table and Molly made sweeping gestures with both of her arms to get him going.

"Weasley," Daphne sidled up to him, giving him an approving glance. "That was positively Slytherin of you. I see I've been a good influence." Ron grimaced.

"Oh, for the bloody love of Merlin . . . . I'll feed myself to a _skrewt_ if you compare me to a Slytherin again." He heard the extra little bite in his voice.

"Promise?"

"Stuff it, Greengrass."

(_Godric, you need food! Don't talk to her on an empty stomach._)

"Ronald!" Hermione exclaimed, aggressively nudging past Fleur as she made her way to the table. "Keep it to yourself. There's no need for that attitude right now. Plus your Mum _is_ right, as usual. Let's just sit and have lunch, okay?"

"Yes, Ronald," Daphne spoke in a sickly sweet tone, "there's no need for your typical barbaric behavior."

Ron cursed the fact that he had left his wand upstairs

(_Must remember . . . silencing spell . . . should work on her like a bloody charm_!)

"That goes for you too, Daphne." Hermione spoke in the most authoritative tone she could muster. "Behave yourselves, both of you."

"I must say zat, een France, zee children do not engage in such combative talk a' zee table. We are civilized and possess proper table manners," Fleur said, smiling pleasantly toward his mum.

Ron looked at the two teenage girls currently sitting at the table with him. Hermione and Daphne glared at Fleur like they would spear her with a fork if they could get away with it.

Ron rather thought his mum might actually overlook it if they did.

Giving Fleur a small smile with firmly-set lips, his mum placed a freshly-baked shepherd's pie on the table. With timing borne of the sharpest food-sniffing sense, Ginny Weasley, cheeks burnt from wind and sun, dragged herself inside from the outdoors. The Burrow filled with the sounds of plates scraping, bellies filling, talk in both French and English, and laughter . . . as well as Ron trying desperately not to fall asleep in the butter.

* * *

"Okay, Ron, I know your mum doesn't really fancy being stuck in the kitchen all by herself with Fleur. What do you need to talk to me about?" 

Ron had pulled Hermione away from table clearing duties. Fleur was busy in the kitchen, assisting his mum with the clean-up _while _annoying her with no foreseeable end.

Daphne, of course, had excused herself to the bathroom once people were finishing and stayed away long enough to miss the clean up. Ron had snorted as he watched her leave unceremoniously. Such went her daily routine any time Mrs. Weasley asked for help in cleaning up any part of the house.

Ron closed the door behind him, and looked at his best friend. . . who also happened to be a girl. . . that he fancied. . . er, a bit.

(_Dammit!_)

He gnawed at the inside of his cheek. He could feel his hands, clammy and sweaty with nerves.

Ron's mind went into overdrive. Should he lead off with how he felt first?

(_"Hey, Hermione, I know we've been best friends for many years, but I desperately want to snog you. By the way, I keep having nightmares about getting violently shagged by a bunch of Death Eaters. 'Cept, it's not me, but someone else."_)

(_Yeah. Nothing says romance quite like _that_, Weasley._)

Or, should he work it the other way around?

(_"Hermione, I'm having ultra-violent nightmares about being violated by a bunch of Death Eaters. Fancy a snog?"_)

(_Why'd you have to be such a bloody idiot?_)

Ron gave his hair a fierce shake and squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

(_Just do it, you sodding coward_.)

"Ron? What's going on?"

"Erm, yeah. Okay." He stopped in front of her. Shaking his head in small, quick motions, Ron started pacing again…

"Ron, really," Hermione said quietly, moving toward him, "you're — you're starting to worry me."

"_S'nothing_!" Ron's vehemence got the better of him. He raised his hands, palms toward Hermione, as he felt himself calming down. "No, sorry. I just . . . I need a bit of a moment, s'all."

He unconsciously ran his hands through his red hair, scratching idly at his scalp through his shaggy locks. Ron closed his eyes — it was something he taught himself to do, when too many things started mashing into his head.

(_Close eyes._)

(_Take deep breaths._)

(_Then start talking_.)

"H-hermione, I don't wanna make you uncomfortable or anything. You don't have to answer this if you don't want to."

"Okay," Hermione responded, suspicious curiosity flooded her voice and face. She regarded Ron with a tilted head, lowered brows and pursed lips. Ron noticed a deep shade of red creeping over her face.

Ron, gathering his thoughts, inhaled deeply and sat on his bed.

"I wanted to know if, well, if y-you have been having, any, er . . ." Ron found himself at a loss for words, so he collected himself and started again.

Hermione sat directly in front of him on the chair next to his bed and leaned forward, waiting for him to continue. Her eyes had suddenly opened wide and she was clearly holding her breath, focusing intently on what he was about to say.

"I w-wanted to know if you'd been having any problems with your injuries from the Department of Mysteries?" Ron leaned back against his wall. He watched Hermione's face fall as she let out her breath.

Sitting a few moments in silence, Hermione spoke up, her eyes staring to her right.

"Well, um, no. Not really, Ron. Besides some acute chest pains and soreness every so often. Madam Pomfrey did say that the curse went fairly deep. It seemed to fracture my breastbone and surrounding muscles." She lifted her hand up to press against her upper chest.

Ron watched as Hermione's face faded away into that distracted look reminiscent of the times she was reciting some obscure footnote buried in the bowels of _Hogwarts, A History_, abridged 6th edition. "Although the Skele-Gro worked on repairing any cracks in my bone, there might be some lingering soreness for the next few weeks." She leaned forward to Ron. "That's partly why Dumbledore suggested I stay here. It would be easier for your family to transport me from the Burrow to Hogwarts or, if necessary, St. Mungo's, if the pain became unmanageable. Plus, your mum might be able to help me with some common healing techniques and pain management spells if it got too sore for me." Hermione sat back as Ron nodded, looking away from her. Hermione then gave him a lopsided smile.

"Of course, Dumbledore wanted to make sure there was someone here, so you and Daphne wouldn't tear each other's heads off!"

Ron slowly turned to look at her. "He sent you here to baby-sit us?" Ron asked her slowly and thickly.

Hermione gave a light chuckle. "Well, I can't really blame him for being so cautious. I mean, you two are quite the pair." Hermione stifled a small laugh behind her fingers. Ron's eyes widened.

"Hermione, I'd never do anything to that girl. I'm a paragon of innocence." Hermione hooted and slapped her knees.

" '_Paragon_ of innocence?' Ron, that's a million-Galleon word if I've ever heard one!" She couldn't help laughing, and Ron, caught up in the sight of her amusement, simply joined in. After a moment, Hermione got herself under control, and spoke again.

"Okay, Ron. You asked me about my injuries. Is there something on your mind?"

(_Well, no time like the present._)

"Um, yeah. Well, the thing is, Hermione, is that there's been stuff happening to me. I don't really know why."

"Oh?"

Ron nodded, and continued on.

"See, I sometimes have these fits. I'll either shake really bad, or I'll just freeze up. Like I've been petrified. I have bloody awful nightmares, too. Really strong ones, actually. There're smells, and things that I think are touching me and I think I can touch them, but they're absolutely vile . . ." Ron trailed off and he ran his hand through his shaggy red hair, shaking it at the side of head in frustration of his current dilemma. He bit his lower lip.

(_Don't you _fucking_ lose it now, Weasley!_)

"And even when I'm awake, I can smell things too — really awful, bad smells. Things rotting or dying, or perfume or cologne from someone that I have never met. Or food — food that's spoiled, or food that's just been cooked. I'll wake up sometimes, and I can't even breathe! It's like the smells are in the room and they're practically suffocating me." Ron took deep breaths as he pressed forward.

"But my seizures. The damndest thing of all, Hermione, is that I seize up when somebody touches me. And when I feel really happy, or when I get excited about something, or I feel or act out in a strong way." Ron rubbed at his forehead, face cringing with thought. "I have no idea why." He watched as Hermione jumped out of her chair and paced about the room, seemingly lost in her own brilliantly batty mental processes.

"You smell things that aren't in your immediate environment," she said as she held up her thumb. "You also seize when you touch someone." Hermione raised another finger. She turned toward the redhead. "Do you hear sounds that seem out of place?"

Ron looked at her like she'd gone mad.

"What? You think I'm mental? I'm not _that_ mental!" Ron huffed.

"Ron, I didn't mean—"

Ron let out a breath and closed his eyes. "No, wait." He set his mouth in a considering manner. "That's actually — I don't necessarily _hear_ voices, but every once in a while, I — well, it's like it was with the veil back in that room . . . at the Ministry." He brought his chin down, but his eyes were focused on her.

Hermione nodded, indicating she understood what he meant. She continued asking him questions, rather than belaboring the point.

"Do you taste anything unusual at odd times, like there was something in your mouth that you've never eaten or hadn't just eaten at that moment?"

Ron thought back to two days after his first nightmare had occurred. He'd had a strong sensation of just drinking several shots of firewhiskey, even though he had just finished his mum's beef stew.

There was no firewhiskey in that recipe.

Ron nodded. He watched as Hermione wore a trough into his floor boards. She wrung her hands as she thought through this new information.

She started talking, although it was clearly more to herself than to Ron, as she was working through the information he had just given to her. "Well, yes, that is possible. But, it wouldn't be permanent. It could be cured with just going to a proper Healer, of course, and maybe seeing . . ."

"Whoo-hoo," Ron waved his hands around. "Hermione?"

(_Bloody hell, I hate it when she does that._)

"What?"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What, Ron?"

"The thing where you ignore me and anyone else nearby and lose yourself in your own brain."

Hermione shook her head, as if clearing it from cloudy thoughts.

"Oh. Sorry about that." She sat back down in the chair. "Well Ron, I think it's clearly connected to the brains that attacked you."

"You mean, the ones I summoned? The ones _I_ got to attack me? Because I'd gone all barmy from some damn Death Eater curse that turned my brain into jelly?" Ron couldn't stop the shame from infecting his voice. His eyes grew cloudy, and he sat on the bed, face scrunched up, lips pouting.

"Ron, don't you do that. Don't you _dare_ start feeling sorry for yourself or feeling bad about the Ministry—"

"Well, what do you expect? I _blew_ _it_ in there, Hermione! I let Harry down. I let you—"

Suddenly, Ron stopped, tearing his eyes away from her. His voice had frozen in his throat, and he could feel sharp pangs of some nameless, painful emotion arising from his chest.

Staring ahead, he noticed that the floor started looking somewhat blurry, rather like a mosaic of colors and shapes.

He chanced a look at Hermione, who was now regarding him with wet eyes and her hand pressed to her mouth. Slowly, Ron felt his own cheeks growing damp with something; realizing his lower lip and chin were trembling as well, comprehension dawned on him. Ron batted his hand at his face.

He was crying.

"Dammit!" He stood up far too quickly, slightly swooning as his blood sought access to his head. Back turned away from Hermione, he ran his hand up and down his face roughly, practically slapping himself to stop it. He heard Hermione walking over to him.

He turned around to see her. Hermione stood directly behind him, arms out in front of her.

(_She's going to touch you, Weasley!_)

He couldn't think of a better thing at that moment, than letting Hermione touch him, to hug him and to let himself hold her.

However, his body clearly disagreed with him.

Ron jerked backwards. Seeing the shocked, hurt look on Hermione's face, Ron groaned.

"See? D'you see what I mean?" Ron practically shouted, the exasperated tone of his voice registering every last bit of frustration he felt about his current condition. "I'm _scared_! Scared that if you — or anyone else — touches me, I'm going to crack!" Ron huffed and threw himself on the end of his bed.

" 'M hopeless, Hermione. Utterly hopeless."

"Ron," Hermione whispered in a low voice, her tone strong and harsh. She kneeled in front of him, keeping a few inches away from Ron's knees and pointed at him, index finger sharp. "You are _not_ hopeless. You are many, many things, but don't _ever, EVER _think of yourself as hopeless."

Ron looked upon her face with hopeful eyes and saw that her face and voice softened, almost instantly.

Hermione tilted her head and smiled sweetly at him.

"That's not to say you can't be a bit clueless every now and again."

"Hey!"

Hermione leaned her head toward Ron, one eyebrow cocked up in the air. She pursed her lips together in a smirk.

"Stubborn, certainly."

"Well!" Ron crossed his arms, pouting.

"Frustrating as well."

"You can stop with the compliments now."

Hermione's face grew serious again.

She tilted her head, her brown eyes focused solely on him, Ronald Bilius Weasley, and nothing else.

"But, for all that, I'd do anything to make sure you're okay, Ron." Hermione leaned forward, pressing her face closer to his. "Anything."

"Worth it, then, am I?" He turned to face her, arms still crossed, mouth set in a sly little grin. Hermione, eyes still firmly set on his, kept her face very serious.

"Yes, Ron. You are."

Ron couldn't have asked for a better 'moment' for himself and Hermione. Not even if one fell out of the sky on a Firebolt.

Time stood still.

The earth stopped moving.

Ron wanted this. He _needed _this to happen.

And, for once, Ron knew Hermione was thinking the same thing.

Their faces moved toward each other . . . .

And right as Ron moved toward the threshold of kissing the girl of his dreams, he convulsed sharply as he felt his hand touch her face. He jerked away and stood up quickly, knocking over Hermione in the process.

"Shit! Dammit!" He made to help Hermione steady herself; he grabbed at the fabric of her sleeve. "S-sorry about that. Such a bumbling git." He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. He was frustrated and furious with himself; he had big enough bollocks to tell her about what was going on with him, but he couldn't even touch — much less bloody _kiss _— the girl without feeling his body was going to fall apart altogether.

"Ron." Hermione stood up before him. Ron just looked at her, eyes, hair, and mouth practically drooping off of his face in a pitiful expression.

"Hopeless…"

Hermione shook her head. "It'll take some time, Ron. You _can_ get through this, okay? _We'll_ get through this." Hermione waved her hand between them. She was careful not to make physical contact with him.

An expression of growing comprehension appeared on Hermione's face. "Ron, you haven't told your parents about this, have you?"

Ron thrust his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. He became very focused on a knot in the closest floorboard.

That was all the answer Hermione needed.

"You should tell them straight away. They can help you with this, Ron."

"No."

"But why—"

"Hermione, I did this to myself, okay? I summoned those brains—"

"But you were under that disorientation spell—"

Ron shook his head

"Doesn't matter. Truth is, I've got to find a way to work through this." Ron held his hand up to quell Hermione's oncoming verbal berating. "I'm almost of age, and I can't have Mum babying me anymore. I can't have Fred and George taking the piss out of me because I'm 'Ickle Ronniekins' and I can't handle some stupid dreams that aren't even my own."

"Ron—"

He shook his head.

"No. I'll find a way to do this on my own, Hermione. And, don't tell _anyone_ anything! I'm trusting you, Hermione. Please. Don't tell a soul."

Hermione slowly blinked and shrugged in resignation. She looked up at him.

"No changing your mind, is there?"

Ron shook his head at her, giving her a cheeky grin.

"Sorry. Great Big Stubborn Prat: 1. Most Brilliant and Beautiful Witch of Her Year: 0." He looked at her with a proud grin spreading across his face, which faltered a bit as he watched Hermione do a double take.

"B-beautiful?"

It took a moment for Ron to remember what he had just said.

"Oh. Bloody. Hell."

"You really think I'm beautiful?"

Ron squeezed his eyes shut.

(_Maybe Fred and George left an extra swamp lying around up here that I can drown myself in._)

(_Or, better yet, I'll tell Mum that I've decided to leave Hogwarts and join the Weird Sisters_)

(_Just so I die quickly!_)

But Ron realized that he had just about kissed the bushy-haired brunette only a few minutes ago, because he felt _that_ moment — that spark of recognition of something more, something 'beyond friendship' — between him and Hermione.

They were moving into new territory. As scary as that seemed, Ron knew he wanted it.

And such territory _should _include the ability to tell this girl exactly what he thought about her. That she was brilliant, beautiful . . . and quite befuddling at times.

But how fair would it be to start something with her now if he couldn't hold her, or touch her?

With his eyes shut and his breathing steady, Ron spoke.

"Yeah." He opened his right eye. Hermione was standing with wide eyes, fingers interlocking together under her chin. Ron could see the moisture gathering in her lower lashes.

"Blimey! You aren't gonna cry, are you Hermione?" Ron asked her. She shook her head vehemently.

"You are! Oh no. Don't. Just hold it a min'—"

Ron dove onto his bed, and grabbed his favorite pillow. It was a lumpy, orange thing, faded and frayed from years of sleep, from ruthless pillow fights between siblings, and from being clutched and thrown about during the more devastating Chudley Cannon losses. A nearly invisible golden snitch twittered around the Cannons' logo.

Ron sniffed it. It smelled just like him.

Ron thrust the pillow to Hermione.

"Here, uh, take it," Ron said as she grasped the pillow with a shaky hand. "Hug it if you need to. You can think it's me or something, okay?"

She nodded vigorously, clutching the pillow to her chest.

"Tears of happiness, right?" Ron asked. Hermione nodded briskly again. Ron smiled at her.

(_God, I love this girl!_)

(_Wait. Huh?_)

As he made to give Hermione a moment to herself, he turned back to look at her. Hermione clutched the Ron-scented pillow tightly to her chest as she buried her face into it.

* * *

Later that evening, as Ron played his dad at a game of wizard's chess — three moves from checkmating his old man — and Hermione, sitting next to Ron, read from the dusty Defense tome (_Orcas Owlbank's Omnibus of Offensive and Defensive Spellwork, _3rd Edition), Daphne Greengrass found she couldn't get a moment's peace. 

Between Mr. Weasley's mild swearing every time Ron countered his moves and Ginny Weasley's constant pestering, it was all Daphne could do _not_ to smack someone.

"Psst!" Ginny whispered to Daphne, for what had to be the eleventy-gabillionth time.

"Bloody hell _what_?" The Slytherin slowly turned her head to the girl. Ginny nodded her head toward the other side of the room. Both girls' eyes traveled to look at Ron's face; he was grinning, wide and bright. It was a smile that practically lit up the room. His eyes had met Hermione's, whose own smile filled her face. The book propped up on her lap was turned upside-down.

Daphne looked back over to Ginny, who was pressing her fist into her mouth, struggling against a laughing fit threatening to take over her entire body. Daphne dramatically shook her head, and went back to her reading, a sly grin spreading on her own face.


	4. Chapter 3: Deals and Damages

**A/N: **Thank you to Tincat for the revisions and grammar and character input. Thank you to the people who have been taking a moment to review this trifle of a story. It's appreciated, all comments, constructive criticism, all of it.

Once again — I own nothing. These are JKR's babies, but I did create Daphne G.'s personality. Rated T for strong language

**

* * *

****Chapter 3: Deals and Damages**

For Harry Potter, it seemed his summer had finally become more interesting.

Dealing with Sirius' death, one day at a time? Check.

Getting away from the hell he knew as the Dursleys'? Check again.

Asking about Dumbledore's creepy and rather icky bad hand? Check once more.

Meeting Professor Slughorn and convincing him to teach at Hogwarts?

(_Um _. . . _check?_)

Harry finally saw the lights shining from the Burrow and smiled, knowing for the first time that summer, he would feel truly whole.

Certainly Hogwarts was a nicer, more fancily done up place, and it made Harry quite happy.

But nothing compared to the brilliance of the Burrow to Harry.

It was the Weasleys.

It was Ron. It was Hermione.

It was home.

And apparently, it was currently a shelter for strays. Harry couldn't stop the wry smile from spreading across his face.

He'd received a number of letters from Ron, in which his best friend railed on and on about the nuisance that had slithered into the Weasleys' home.

Daphne "The Slytherin Nightmare" Greengrass.

("_Harry! Please! Yell, plead, bloody _cry _or _hex_ Dumbledore to get you to stay here! Anything! She's an absolute _nightmare_! Have my mum and dad been _Imperiused_? It's a _catastrophe_ here!"_)

Harry had snorted in amusement when he had received the first letter. Then the second and third letters had come in quick succession, always talking about the same things: Quidditch, the Burrow, Hermione and when is she coming, Harry and when is _he_ coming, and the constant thorn in Ron's side since that first week of summer — Daphne.

Letting the Slytherin into the DA had proved — interesting. He had watched Ron alternate all throughout last year between hexing the living crap out of her and actually teaching her defense. Ron and Daphne's interaction provided entertainment . . . and insight.

Daphne hadn't signed up to spy on the meetings. She hadn't ratted them out. She had even fought tooth and nail to be included in the Ministry battle, which ended. . . .

(_Let's not dwell on that, Potter!_)

Shaking his head to regain his composure, Harry continued to muse about Miss Greengrass, as Dumbledore lightly and politely called her, like he was gently teasing her with the formality. He remembered that fateful first Monday of classes last year that brought his attention to Daphne.

After their initial Potions class, Daphne had pulled Harry aside to tell him, privately, that. . .

"—_even though I'm a Slytherin, Potter, and you probably won't believe me, or anything I say _. . . _I just wanted you to know that I believe you, okay?"_

"_What? Why the hell would you?"_

_Daphne shrugged. "Apparently, I'm a — what do they call it? A 'buckaroo?' " _

_Harry cocked his eyebrow. _

_She had shaken her head, wanting to take it back. "It just means 'a cowboy,' or, well, _an independent soul,' _er _. . . 'a free thinker'. . . _Well, I saw it in an American Muggle movie about Russians and submarines…never mind." She rubbed her face. "I can't really explain it without a couple of hours and some butterbeer, but I _. . . _I, shit!" She bit her lip, and her eyes looked wildly around for what she wanted to say. "I'm just, I'm confused and I'm supposed to be in Slytherin, and I don't really know why I believe you, okay?" _

_Agitation sent her voice skywards. She blinked for a long time, Daphne started gathering herself up, and looked at him, "Potter, I don't expect you to believe me now or later, whatever I say." Harry nodded, eyes arched in agreement. "I do want to let you know _. . ._ well, just that. For now."_

"_Great. That's loads of help for me." She snorted at his cynical tone. "Anything else, Greengrass, or can I go on my way?"_

_Daphne scowled at him. "You're free to go whenever, Potter!" Harry pushed past her toward the hallway leading out of the dungeons. _

"_Potter!" _

_He turned around at Daphne's voice, his green eyes glowing furiously "What?" _

_Harry reckoned that she looked — confused. _

"_Umm_. . ._" she stuttered, "I'm _. . ._ I just _. . . _we're not _all_ bloody Malfoys, okay?" With that, Daphne turned sharply on her heels and stalked back toward the dungeons_. . . .

After this unexpected ambush (_er _. . . _encounter_) Harry had gone up to the common room and found Hermione. He had told his friend about Daphne's ambush in the hallway. She had seemed surprised, but then told him she and Daphne did study together occasionally. . . .

"_Well, Harry. I admit I was more than a little surprised when she approached me in third year and allowed me to share her notes. Well, threw her notes _at _me, actually. But, she's fairly good in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes_. . ._ "_

_He snorted. "That's just _wonderful_, Hermione." Harry couldn't keep out the sarcasm out of his voice. "So as well as 'spew' —"_

"_That's_ S.P.E.W._ Harry!"_

"—_you're also president of the Slytherin Fan Club of Gryffindor?" _

_Hermione slapped him on the shoulder. _

"_Did you not listen to the Sorting Hat? About trying to get along with the other houses?"_

"_No!" Harry's voice took a dangerous tone. "I've been too preoccupied fighting _VOLDEMORT_! I'll give you three guesses what house he was in!" Hermione glared at him. Harry held up his hand and put up a finger for each guess. "Slytherin, Slytherin, and oh yeah _. . . Slytherin_!"_

"_Harry, there are many students in each house." Hermione's tone was even, but there was a slight tremor as she struggled to keep her emotions from spilling out. She poked him in the chest. "Each one of them might be their own person. They might not all march to the beat of same drum." With that, she stacked up her books and stomped away to the girls' dormitory_. . . .

"Harry?" Albus Dumbledore's gentle voice summoned Harry back to the present. "Harry, I wanted a brief word with you before I let Molly pounce on your most alarming, underfed condition."

Even in the middle of the night, Harry could see Dumbledore's eyes twinkling.

"Yes, sir."

Dumbledore and Harry found an empty garden shed and the older wizard shut the door behind him to give them more privacy.

Harry felt himself nodding at Dumbledore's revelations that he was going to have special classes with him, and agreed that he should talk to Ron and Hermione about the prophecy.

"Well, Harry," Dumbledore said with a note of finality, "I hope that this sounds satisfactory to you?"

"Yes, Professor. The extra lessons are fine and everything. But," Harry paused, "I sort of wanted your opinion about something?"

"Certainly!"

"Sir, I wanted to know, what you thought about continuing with the DA?" Harry's own voice sounded a bit stilted. "Do you think there's any need for that now that Umbridge was sack- . . . er, now that we should have a better teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

Dumbledore nodded, contemplating this as he stroked his chin with his good hand.

"Harry, I think it would be wise to leave that decision up to you. I daresay that the other students involved would find the extra tutoring helpful, given our troubled times."

Dumbledore paused and leaned forward.

"Now, Harry, I wanted to take the opportunity to discuss the current guest that the Weasleys have been kind enough to take in."

"Who? Daphne?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"Yes, Harry. You see, the Weasleys have allowed Miss Greengrass boardroom for the remainder of the summer at my request."

Harry's eyebrows couldn't have shot up any higher. Dumbledore gave a slight chuckle.

"I am sure you are wondering why I would go to such great lengths for Miss Greengrass." Harry shrugged and nodded. "What do you know about her, Harry?"

Harry had had a number of conversations with Daphne over the past year. It had dawned on him, slowly, that she had seen him as a kindred spirit of sorts; both teenagers had been orphaned before ever knowing their mums and dads, both teenagers grew up in less than ideal households, and both had been completely unaware that they were magical beings, despite the unusual things that kept happening around them.

And he himself had been a hair's-breadth away from being sorted into Slytherin.

Harry told Dumbledore what he knew about Daphne.

Dumbledore gave Harry a knowing look, as if he'd already been perfectly aware of what Harry was telling him. After a moment, the Headmaster spoke, "Well, I do hope that the reasons for my unusual request will be made clear in the future. Now, Harry, I think I've kept you from Molly's hospitality and a warm bed for far too long. Shall we?"

With that, Dumbledore opened the door and led them out of the shed.

* * *

"Albus, really!" Molly Weasley implored him. "You _must_ stay and feed yourself. You are at _no_ age to neglect proper nutrition or sustenance. Going away for so long on such draining and dangerous tasks—" 

Mrs. Weasley clearly felt no reservations in dealing with the most powerful wizard currently living. Harry chuckled into his second helping of onion soup as the motherly witch frowned at the Headmaster and stubbornly gestured at his sickly hand.

Dumbledore, clearly amused, held his good hand up in surrender.

"My dear Molly! I should know better to never go against your wishes for all of us to be well fed and well taken care of. I will have a helping of your most marvelous-smelling soup and bread."

Mrs. Weasley had already bustled over with the food before Dumbledore even finished talking.

"Molly, I hope you don't mind me asking, but I simply wanted to know for my own benefit," said Dumbledore as he savored the rich, warm broth, "how is Miss Greengrass faring with your family?"

Harry noticed Mrs. Weasley pinching her mouth to restrain herself from what she _wanted_ to say. Hands firmly on hips, Mrs. Weasley sucked in a deep breath.

"She's . . . definitely had a rough life, Albus. No parents or other family, going from home to home at a young age . . . it's toughened her constitution quite a bit."

"Is she getting along with your children, Molly? With Ron, in particular."

At this, Harry saw Mrs. Weasley squeeze her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose with her right hand. Her mouth puckered like she had just taken a bite out of a lemon.

Apparently, she was exasperated with her youngest son and their houseguest.

"They just snipe at each other all the time! Hermione's been wonderful, keeping both of them under some semblance of control. But Daphne will push Ron, and Ron will push back. Sometimes, it's just teasing and I feel like there's another Weasley girl around the house—"

This sentiment surprised Harry greatly.

"—but there are times when it starts getting a bit rough, even for the two of them. Daphne might leave the room, or Ron will stomp upstairs and act like a six-year-old until I threaten him with chores and no lunch or dinner." Mrs. Weasley shook her head. "They can be very similar at times though. Which surprises me."

Dumbledore merely nodded at this.

"Harry, I shall not keep you longer from the comfortable bed that is waiting for you. Miss Greengrass was told that I wanted to speak to her, despite the late hour of our arrival. I do believe she is up in Percy's room, correct, Molly?"

Mrs. Weasley nodded.

"Excellent. Harry would you please fetch her? I would like a moment with her as well in private."

"Yes, sir." Harry stopped at the bottom step. "Oh, Professor?" Dumbledore looked up at Harry.

"I . . . wanted you to know that, um," Harry found himself at a loss for words. "I'm . . . doing okay. After the Ministry and . . . losing Sirius."

Harry's voice caught in his throat for a moment. He shook his head to continue. "I'm just looking for the good things in the all the bad stuff that happens." His gaze traveled to the floor; looking at Dumbledore right now seemed like a really bad idea. "I just want to live like Sirius wanted me to."

"Harry, Harry, Harry." Dumbledore regarded him with a contented smile, clasping his hands in front of him. "I can't think of a better way to remember Sirius — and your parents — than doing just that! They would be, and _are_, very proud of what you have become, young man." Dumbledore's bright blue eyes glistened with a slight dampness, reflecting the Weasleys' dining room lights.

Harry smiled, feeling the anger and frustration that had clouded the relationship with the old Headmaster for most of last year ebbing away . . . slowly. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment in time that he decided to start letting go of his anger and guilt from last year — or if there even _was_ an exact moment.

After all the loss, all the heartbreak, of the last two years, Harry was finally ready to live.

Smiling away, he started up the stairs to bring Daphne to the dining room.

* * *

"_Pro-fes-sor_," Daphne spoke with as much sarcasm as she could muster. 

(_A Slytherin does have a reputation to uphold, after all!_)

"I know you'd like to think that every single witch and wizard, including the ones that wear this," she held up the corner of her cloak, displaying prominently the green and silver serpentine shield to the old man's face, "are good and wonderful and all, but I'm not going about on some pointless investigation in my house for ones that'll fight against Voldemort and ones that'll sit on their lazy arses, or ones that'll run straight away to get the Dark Mark plastered on their arms."

She shook her head. He wanted her to _spy _on her own house. While sneaking around her house, asking others to put away their preconceived notions about the wizarding world and thus instigating an entire ideological revolt somewhat . . . amused Daphne, she'd prefer if Dumbledore would ask someone else.

Unfortunately, she did not have that luxury.

Plus, she was bloody exhausted. Being forced to talk to the old codger at such an _ungodly_ hour was abuse in and of itself.

She chuckled as she thought of Child Protective Services stampeding into the Burrow.

"Daphne, I'm not asking you to investigate the students in your house. I want your assistance with the younger Slytherins. Talk to them and perhaps persuade them that they have a choice about which side to follow." He peered at her sternly over the top of his spectacles. "Remember our first conversation, my dear, when I gave you your very first Hogwarts letter?"

She didn't care if he was the Hogwarts' Headmaster. Daphne narrowed her eyes.

(_He should know that means danger!_)

"What makes you think I'm any different from the rest of them, eh? From Malfoy and his cow of a girlfriend Parkinson—"

She noticed the Headmaster's quick, disapproving stare.

"There's also those idiots, Crabbe and Goyle. Say, I'll just throw a boulder in the common room. Likely'll hit one of the 'bad ones'." Daphne crossed her arms petulantly. "What makes you think I _won't _run straight away to Lestrange or Malfoy Senior, or any other Death Eater, and tell them everything I know about the Order?"

"And what, exactly, do you _think_ you know about the Order?" Dumbledore continued to peer at her in a very odd, but unnerving way. Daphne opened her mouth to say something, but was at a complete loss.

What information could she give them that they'd want so bad? The location was right out — Dumbledore was the secret keeper. Plus, Daphne was fairly sure the Burrow wasn't the official hideout. And the other side already knew who most of the Order members were and what they had been guarding at the Department. Of course, there was Harry, but she had no idea where he actually lived; she was pretty certain the Weasleys hadn't _officially_ adopted Potter.

She continued to scowl grumpily.

Dumbledore gave Daphne a small smile.

"Miss Greengrass, I have no desire whatsoever to fight with you. Indeed, you can be quite _charming_ in a similar way to Professor Snape, from time to time."

Daphne snorted in derision.

"But, as with Professor Snape, I can sense a—"

Dumbledore paused.

Despite her own apparent disinterest in the Headmaster's pointless ramblings, Daphne leaned forward, anxious as to what he would say next.

"I sense another side to you that belies your external charms" Dumbledore intertwined his fingers (as best he could, given the condition of one of his hands) and placed them around his cloaked knee.

"Daphne, I believe, consciously or unconsciously, you made your choice some time ago, about whether to support Harry or Voldemort. You made that choice before you ever struck up a friendship with Harry, Ron and Hermione. Finding a place _with_ them," Dumbledore gestured upstairs, "well, think of it as a _serendipitous_ event!"

Daphne couldn't stop her eyes from rolling.

(_This idiot dares to twinkle at me? How the _hell_ does Snape put up with the twat?_)

"Daphne, despite what may be going on in that head of yours, I want you to keep something in mind. All of you — and I do mean not only you, but Harry, Hermione and Ron as well — all of you will find that friendship, in the most unlikeliest of places, can change the world." Dumbledore touched the tip of his long, thoughtful nose with the index finger of his good hand.

Daphne found herself frowning at him, although she was attempting to parse through what he meant by that ridiculously schmaltzy sentiment.

"Now, Daphne, our meeting is concluded. Do you have anything else you wish to speak about with me before I return to Hogwarts?"

Daphne crossed her arms and fumed at the floor.

(_The barmy git knows _exactly_ what I'm going to say._)

(_I really do hate him a little._)

"Fine, Dumbledore." He gave her another stern stare. "I mean —_Pro-fes-sor_! I'll do it. I'll talk to the runts in the house. Can't promise I'll do any good. . . ."

"To just try, Daphne, is all I ask."

Daphne nodded at him, but her mind started thinking about something else.

There was something that had been bothering her for quite some time as she found herself opening up to Harry about her own past. Her face must have reflected the thoughts that troubled her mind because, as she looked up, Dumbledore remained seated and focused on her.

He knew she had something she needed to get off her chest.

"Dumble- . . . er, Professor. I want to know if you _did_ see something in me — something _good _— up here," she pointed to her head, "when we first met? Professor?" she added, her tone softer than she normally used with him.

Dumbledore considered her very carefully.

"I admit, Daphne, that when I met you, there were aspects of your situation that concerned me. You were using magic on other children—" he held up a hand to stop her before she could defend herself. "And I know you didn't _mean_ to make Mildred Clarke's hair fall out, nor did you intend to set fire to Thomasina Belknap's entire closet. But you were also stealing from them, and others, weren't you?"

Daphne mumbled something that sounded like "They did it too." But she managed to look appropriately ashamed regarding this troubling reminder of her past.

Dumbledore's face softened towards the young Slytherin. "But, and I stress this as well, you _gave_ those things back, in person, to each child you took them from and apologized to their faces without Miss Proctor or myself telling you to do it." Once again, Dumbledore gave Daphne a gentle smile. "Would you like to hear why I think you did it, Daphne?"

She rolled her eyes at the old Headmaster. "Look, I wasn't expecting to get _shrunk_, Professor! I need to go to bed—"

Dumbledore's hand silenced Daphne's tirade.

"Stealing from those children was a sign that you needed, and wanted, attention, regardless of whether that attention was positive or negative. You wanted someone to care about what you were doing. And it was also meant by you to retaliate against them. 'An eye for an eye.' Does that sound accurate?"

Daphne nodded looking down at her feet.

"Daphne, you felt neglected, and you thought they took things from you, so you took from them. Do you feel that's a fair assessment?"

Daphne mumbled, "S'pose so."

"Take heart, Miss Greengrass!" Daphne looked up at Dumbledore. "Young lady, those feelings, everything you felt then, that you probably still feel now, are perfectly normal. It's certainly normal for how you were raised."

Dumbledore lowered his chin, his eyes still on Daphne. "Please remember something, my dear. Humans are fallible creatures. We will make mistakes, we will do bad things." She cocked an eyebrow toward him. "Oh yes, Daphne, _especially_ myself. And like you, I will continue to make mistakes until the day I die. But I strive, every day that I am alive and breathing, to make right what I have done wrong."

Dumbledore paused for a moment. Daphne saw his beard twitch ever so slightly as he pressed his fingertips to his mouth.

"Daphne, when I first met you in Miss Proctor's home, you reminded me of a boy that I used to know a long, long time before you were born." Dumbledore stared just past her, over her shoulder at the window just over the sink and took a deep breath. "This boy strayed far, far away from everything good and wonderful in life. I felt like I failed him, Daphne. If I'm being perfectly honest with you, I still feel like I failed him to this day." Dumbledore returned his gaze to her, eyes and face softening to a gentle, reassuring smile.

"My dear child, I did initially worry about the direction you would choose for yourself when you first arrived at Hogwarts." Dumbledore kept his eyes focused on her, lingering a bit too long for Daphne's comfort. "However, seeing you now," he said, sweeping his hand toward her, "I do think, Daphne, that you have begun down a road that will help you find what you're looking for."

The Headmaster paused once again. "I hope I'm making myself clear to you."

Daphne shrugged, but her eyebrows crinkled in concentration as she tried to absorb Dumbledore's words.

"Wonderful." Dumbledore patted her on the shoulder with his healthy hand. "Well, duty awaits me. And sleep awaits you! Please do give the others here my best."

As he stood to make his way over the door, Daphne chanced asking him another question.

"Professor, who was the other boy?"

Dumbledore halted just before the doorframe leading to the front yard of the Burrow and turned to face her slowly. Staring directly at her, he said in a measured voice, "Please take heart in what I've told you today, Daphne. I shall see you at school."

Daphne realized she never moved a muscle until she heard the distant _POP_ in the field as the old Headmaster Disapparated.

* * *

Dinner was a raucous affair the following day. Their O.W.L.S. came early that morning. Although she did not come close to achieving the high number of "Outstandings" that Hermione had managed, Daphne did quite well, managing to achieve three "Outstandings" two of which were in her favorite classes — Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. 

And, of course, she got an "Outstanding" in Potions.

Why wouldn't she? She _was _a bloody Slytherin, after all. And Professor Snape _was_ her absolute favorite teacher in the whole school.

(_What? I like smart, sarcastic men _. . . _who favor Slytherins in their classes!_)

Harry and Ron's O.W.L.S were also cause for celebration. He and Ron had received a total of seven O.W.L.S. each. Harry had managed one "Outstanding" in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

(_Well, he did practically teach the damn course last year!_)

And Ron? He'd managed _not_ to fuck up as badly as the twins.

(_Although, if opening that joke shop is considered "fucking up," I wouldn't mind making a mistake or two_ . . .)

"What did Dumbledore want with you last night?" Daphne asked Harry as they sat down for dinner.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I asked you first, Potter." Harry smirked at Daphne's smug little grin.

"Well, _Greengrass_, Dumbledore asked me about you."

"What? Why?"

Harry shrugged.

"Dunno. Wanted to make sure our Gryffindor spirit was rubbing off on you?" He bit his lip as he nudged her with his elbow. She glared at him.

"Oi! You'll do well to keep any 'spirit' of yours away from me!"

"'Arry! Daphne! Seet down an' quit 'zis silly bickering!" Fleur piped in. Daphne sneered and rolled her eyes at the French tart.

Daphne generally tried _not _to agree with Ginny the Runt about anything as a matter of principal — the girl was just too…_perfect_.

(_And perfection is so bloody annoying!_)

However, Daphne made a stark exception in all things regarding 'Phlegm'. The three teenage girls' shared opinion on "_La Vache Française_" was the one thing that truly connected them.

Phlegm was, in their estimation, simply obnoxious beyond belief.

However, Bill Weasley? Bill was _fucking _beautiful! Beautiful . . . but stupid.

Daphne sighed. That such as gorgeous guy — despite that obnoxious red hair — could choose Phlegm . . . there was simply no accounting for taste!

"Hey Ron?" Harry called out to his best mate and snapping Daphne out of her reverie. "How about we come up with a creative name for 'Miss Greengrass' here? Daphne's really quite a mouthful, don't you agree?"

Ron, mouth filled with shepherd's pie and milk, nodded vigorously, smiling as bits of potato topping threatened to fall back onto his plate.

"What about Fifi?" Harry started them out, waiting for Ron to finish chewing. Daphne huffed.

"Hmm. Or there's GiGi — as in Greengrass. That last name's dying to be shortened."

Daphne's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Ooh! I've got it! I've got it! _Daffy_!" Ron said in a smugly proud voice.

"I like that! So, Daffy it is then!"

Daphne had turned her attention to her plate of food, but continued to glare at the dish like it had just insulted her dark, greasy hair.

"Oh, _Da-ffy_." Harry said in a sing-song voice. A round of giggles erupted at the table.

She made to punch him in the arm.

"POTTER! Don't start!"

Harry laughed as he held up a hand in a blocking move, cutting her fist off from its trajectory. "Daffy, maybe it's not the Gryffindor spirit you're missing. It just a bit of a Gryffindor sense of humor."

If Daphne gritted her teeth any harder, they'd fall out of her head in a puff of dust.

" Nothing's wrong with _my_ sense of humor, _Harry_. Hrrumph!" she sniffed smugly at him. "So bloody like a Gryffindor to not appreciate the subtlety and fine art of Slytherin wit."

"HAH!" Ron's barking laugh cut in. Bread and butter flew from his mouth all over the table. "Iff't's 'subble'" finger-quoting in the air, "s'not worf' it."

Mrs. Weasley huffed and tutted at him.

"For Merlin's sake, Ron, swallow your food _before_ you speak!"

Fleur and Hermione both rolled their eyes at Ron. Daphne's lip curled in utter disgust at her tablemate, although she had witnessed worse behavior from Crabbe and Goyle.

"Seriously Granger," Daphne spoke as she turned toward Hermione. "You _want_ him to kiss you with that hole he shoves his food into?"

Hermione and Ron both turned identical shades of vibrant crimson. Satisfied with herself, Daphne turned to Harry, "For your information, Potter, he wants me to see if the younger Slytherins could be persuaded to believe in you and join up in the cause." She shrugged. "He also wants to see if there are any others who support you," Daphne mumbled.

Regaining her composure, Hermione spoke up.

"Daphne, that's a great idea! The Sorting Hat last year warned us about house unity, and this is the perfect time to practice that sentiment. Daphne," Hermione was practically bouncing in her chair with excitement, "you should put together a pamphlet or manifesto for them, you know?"

"Yeah," Ron piped in, mouth finally empty. "Call it 'Reasons Why The Boy-Who-Lived Will Kick You-Know-Who's Arse!'"

"We can even make shirts," Harry started laughing. " 'I Chose Harry Potter over The Dark Lord and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt!'" Harry ran his hands over his chest, miming where the words would go. Hermione rolled her eyes and tried to speak up as Ron and Harry erupted in laughter. Even Molly tried to hide the grin blossoming behind her hand.

"Boys! That's awful," Mrs. Weasley managed to say, but only through great hiccupping sounds as she repressed her laughter.

Fleur, the idiot, looked rather confused. "Tee-shirts? Why iz zat so funny?"

Hermione looked extremely put out. "Daphne should take this seriously! It could mean an entire reworking of Slytherin House, both socially and politically. And why end there? What if it meant stopping the sorting altogether?"

Ron practically spat out his milk and started spluttering.

"Why in name of Merlin's Bum Warts would you stop the sorting?"

"_Language_, Ronald!" Molly warned.

"Why not?"

"Because, Hermione, there's never, ever, in the entire _history_ of Hogwarts," he spread his arm out wide, "ever _not_ been a sorting." Ron shook his head and spoke in mock seriousness. "Honestly, I know you own _Hogwarts, A History_, but do you actually _read_ it?"

Hermione's deadly glare only managed to make the Ron and Harry laugh harder.

Daphne, though, had felt her temper rising throughout the dinner conversation. For whatever reason, Hermione's statements about Slytherin House touched a nerve. Daphne threw her napkin down on the plate, shoved her chair out of the way and stood up so quickly that she nearly upended the entire table.

"Daphne, wha-"

"Why does it have to be Slytherin that changes?" Daphne paced along the length of the table in quick, deliberate steps. All eyes were on her, unblinking. "Not _one_ of the whole lot of you ever say it's you, or Ravenclaw, or the idiots that get into Hufflepuff have any changes to make. Why the hell does it always have to be us?"

"Daphne! You had better settle down. If you can't, then go upstairs. I do not tolerate such outbursts at my table from any child!" Mrs. Weasley stood before her, waving her wooden spoon toward Percy's room. She was only a couple of centimeters taller than the Slytherin, but Mrs. Weasley was clearly ready to go head-to-head with the teenager, if necessary.

Daphne was about to tell off Mrs. Weasley, when she heard someone next to her get up from the table.

"I'll tell you why you lot have to change." It was Ron Weasley who had stood up, all skin, bones, glowering eyes and flaming hair. "Because your House keeps breeding Death Eaters! Including the king snake himself." Ron's eyes were a dark, dangerous shade of blue, and his ears were on fire. He crossed his arms, air streaming from his flared nostrils, like a bull preparing to charge.

Daphne stared him down. "Oh, just because we're all cunning, ruthless, power-hungry, pureblood maniacs? There is nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all, with wanting things like ambition or power. They can be useful, particularly when you're gallivanting around after a _dark_ _lord_!"

It slipped out, without her even meaning to. A hush fell over the house. Even Daphne was shocked that she had called Voldemort . . . that. She felt her own hand rise up, trembling as she touched her mouth. She closed her eyes; she didn't need to see Ron to know that he looked repulsed by her.

(_All that hard work, down the drain._)

(_Whatever! You don't need them._)

"You just sounded like one of them, y'know that?" Ron spoke like he had bile in his mouth. "_We_ fought against them, and now you're sounding just like one of them." He turned to the rest of the table. "I mean, it's obvious, innit? You lived among all those other wastes of human existence, and now you're spouting back all that Death-Eater-in-training rot. Like it's a part of you."

Ron threw down his napkin.

"You know what they do to people. They treat them like animals." Ron moved slowly toward Daphne. "They tie them up, torture them, curse them until they're unconscious, then wake them up and torture them some more." Ron stood directly in front of Daphne, inhaling and exhaling in deep, purposeful breaths. "And then they'll kill them whenever they've finished having their fun." Ron's nostrils flared with each breath. Daphne shuddered as she looked at his eyes.

So many times, she had seen Ron's eyes fill with annoyance, frustration, and anger. Other times, they could twinkle with amusement, much like Dumbledore's.

But never had she seen his eyes so . . . dead. So cold. . . .

"Excuse me. I'm done eating. I'll be up in my room." He walked toward the stairs. Hermione got up, placing her napkin on the plate.

"Daphne, I-I'll try talking to him." As she walked toward the stairs, Hermione looked back at her. "I know you didn't mean it, what you did mean, but — you understand. . . ."

Daphne couldn't look at Hermione anymore. Merlin, she needed air.

She turned and saw Harry, staring at her with intense gaze.

"We put a lot of faith in you, that you _were_ different from people like Malfoy and the rest. I hope . . . God, Daphne! I hope that we weren't making a mistake." Harry went upstairs to join Hermione and Ron.

Ginny, Fleur and Mrs. Weasley were staring at her as well.

(_Might as well let them have at you, too._)

Ginny's eyes looked directly at her, narrowing into threatening little daggers. "I'm going to be in my room, Mum. Let me know if she," Ginny said as she pointed to Daphne, "starts cursing you." And she whipped her long hair around and marched to the door.

"Here, Molly. Please, allow me." Fleur intoned gently. She started picking up the dishes and the silverware, bringing as much as her delicate arms could carry over to the sink.

"Help me clear the table, Daphne." Mrs. Weasley's severe voice brokered no room for argument. Daphne obeyed.

The silence in the kitchen and the Burrow allowed Daphne to ponder how she'd let her words get away from her. Was she capable of becoming one of them? Daphne didn't see how, considering it was Cedric's death that had convinced her to talk to Harry. She replayed the image of Harry bringing back Cedric's body over and over in her mind.

Cedric had been nothing more than a stranger to her. She'd never met the boy even. As far as she was concerned, he was a pretty fit, somewhat dense, Quidditch-loving fool that excelled at everything because the female teachers wanted to do him and the male teachers wanted to be him . . . or something like that.

But seeing him dead with his father crying for him . . . seeing Harry screaming for help. . . .

Two innocent children in danger. . . .

Two innocent children facing some powerful, uncaring evil. . . .

If Harry absolutely _had_ to overcome that, wouldn't he _need _power to use against Voldemort? Wouldn't one have to be cunning, ruthless, and keep oneself alive to destroy him?

Aren't those necessary qualities found in Slytherins?

Daphne finished with the dishes. When Mrs. Weasley asked her to check on the laundry, she did so, without false bathroom breaks or other excuses. When Ron came out of his room, seemingly calm, merely acknowledging her with a brief nod, she simply replied in kind.

Hermione spoke to her the next morning. She had talked to Ron in great detail about the dinner the evening before. "You've got to think about what you say, Daphne, while you're staying here," Hermione told her, in a far more condescending tone than Daphne liked. The girl, however sat and listened to the Gryffindor. "Ron's had a hard time believing that a Slytherin could support Harry, but the fact that you fought with us, you were there through the DA and at the Ministry, that spoke volumes to him." Hermione leaned forward, staying as close as possible to Daphne without invading the other girl's space, "He's working through it all. Just let him be for a couple of days. I think he'll come around."

"What about Harry?" Hermione sighed and lifted her eyebrows.

"He has a better time of forgiving than Ron does. He's okay, for now, but he still has his reservations, Daphne." Her voice and face were so patronizing it was all Daphne could do not to punch her.

(_So much for this summer being easygoing and painless!_)

It would be so easy for them to give up on her, to bung her back with all the other Slytherins.

And, if that happened, how would the Slytherins treat her after the fight at the Department of Mysteries?

(_Won't I just be chucked away?_)

Silently, she busied herself around the house, wondering how she could make these conflicting emotions go away. She even started asking Fleur if there was anything she could help out with — it didn't matter if she was hanging out with 'Phlegm', or whatever. So long as she kept working, she wouldn't dwell on the crap that was currently her life.

Memories of yesterday's conversation with the Headmaster floated back into her mind, as did a particular request he'd made to her about her own House, and Hermione Granger's affection for the plan. She couldn't help thinking about the three other teenagers in the Burrow, the ones who, for better or worse, had put faith in her. Summoned by some unknown force, Daphne recalled the enigmatic, but sentimental words from the Headmaster in the early hours of yesterday morning.

("_Friendship, in the most unlikeliest of places, can change the world_. . . .")

* * *

"La Vache Française" means "The French Cow" (_fem_.); feel free to correct me in my utter wrongness or abuse of the French language . . . please! 


	5. Chapter 4: Two Choices Revealed

**A/N: **Thanks to Tincat for the beta-work. You help make my stuff readable. 

So, in this chapter, my favorite television chef, Nigella Lawson, makes a cameo appearance. Or, at least one of her dishes from Nigella Bites makes a cameo appearance. Bread warm milk, sugar and vanilla is like a casual bread pudding, if you control the amount of milk used. It's pretty dreamy.

Here, Ron makes a choice, Daphne explains hers, and Harry has a talk with Ginny. Rated T for strong language and non-explicit violent imagery.

**

* * *

****Chapter 4: Two Choices Revealed**

"Nnn-uh . . . _aargh_!"

Ron twisted and turned, sweat-soaked bed-sheets tangled in his long, gangly limbs.

"Gods . . . s-sstop . . ."

His arms punched the air, seeking out his attackers. But he was bound. Chained to the walls of the cell. He couldn't take the pain, but this other — _brain _— or whatever was inside of him, unbelievably, kept defying the hurt, the _agony_ . . . and the men causing it.

(_C'mon, you bastards, is that the best you can do?_)

"No . . . won't—YEEEAAARGGH"

Ron felt something on his arms, firm and hard pressure pushing them into his body. He could feel himself shaking.

His eyes shot open.

"NO! GET OFF ME! GET OFF ME YOU _BASTARD!"_

"Ron!" A firm male voice yelled his name. "Ron it's me. Harry." Ron's eyes, blurry from sleep, focusing on the boy in front of him.

Black hair.

Glasses.

Zigzag scar on his forehead.

Just Harry.

Ron exhaled and smacked at his forehead, rubbing it with the palm of his hand.

"Hey," Harry's breathing slowed down and sat down in front of him on the bed. "That one seemed bad. Was it worse tonight?"

Ron closed his eyes. Hand covering his face, he could feel the beads of cold sweat all over his face; judging by his beddings, he knew he was drenched in fluids. Shakily, he ran a hand through his hair.

"Th-that was," Ron grimaced, "bad, yeah."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, not right . . . Harry? Can you see if Hermione can come in here? I, um . . . I think, I just—" Ron closed his eyes; all those images, all the smells of the cell in his dream. He had been surrounded by the pungent odors of the Death Eaters themselves, and — worst of all — the images.

All that pain . . .

All those curses . . .

(_Breathe, Weasley!_)

Ron counted down in his head from ten. He had found Hermione's suggested relaxation exercise gave him some respite from the memories and images that kept intruding into his mind.

(_Hermione _. . .)

"H-Harry, could you get Hermione?" Ron tried to talk in between his staggering breaths. "She might be better equipped to handle . . . me, right now."

Harry must have been inclined to agree, because he jumped off the bed with deliberate speed, gave a thumbs-up to Ron, and set off to Ginny's room.

* * *

"Do you want to talk about it, Ron?" 

Hermione sat with her back against the wall in Ron's bedroom. Harry had graciously offered to vacate to the sitting room of the Burrow, which had an old and impossibly comfy couch which was perfect for sleeping. Hermione's hand hovered just above Ron's as it lay between them on the bed. Ron pressed his back firmly to the wall at the head of his bed. He kept quiet and still, eyes frozen on the other side of the room.

When he didn't respond, Hermoine decided she'd chance a most difficult action for him.

"Can I hold your hand, Ron?"

Ron looked over at her. "H-here . . ." he said shakily. "Um, I can try—" With great trepidation, Ron moved his hand over to meet hers. He trembled, and small beads of cold sweat appeared on skin between his nose and upper lip.

Ron and Hermione had been moving slowly toward physical contact.

_Excruciatingly_ slowly.

A snail could've made it around the world and back again before Ron and Hermione _might_ move beyond simply asking each other's permission to hold hands.

However, once Ron was able to muster enough physical and mental strength to allow a bare touching of their hands, it was marvelous.

But he could only do this with Hermione.

He felt for her fingers, taking them into his own, shaking paws. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Ron heard her release a small breath.

"It was . . . Hermione, it was a really bad one." She didn't say anything, but only nodded. "I woke up smelling Death Eaters."

"You could smell Death Eaters? In your room?" Ron nodded.

"Their body odors, their dirty hair, their breaths—" he shuddered remembering the meaty, sour tang as a tall, rather shapeless Death Eater pushed his sweaty, stubbly face against Ron's.

Ron knew the man was toying with him, waiting for the others to come and join in the fun of hurting the Muggle-born witch whose brain and sensory experiences had briefly taken over Ron's.

The Death Eater's spit and sweat had flung carelessly onto Ron. The man taunted him, cursing Ron over and over….

The worst part was the Muggle-born witch always appeared as Ron himself.

It got much worse when the man summoned his other Death Eater friends.

Ron had found himself surrounded by men and a few women in dark cloaks in the nightmare. The dark wizards smelled of rot and body odor.

They had ripped the cloak off Dream-Ron's back.

They took Dream-Ron's wand and snapped it in two.

They had taken out their wands and stripped . . .

Ron found himself unable to sit. He got up and started pacing around the room.

(_Moving's good_ . . . _when I move, that means I'm free_ . . . _I'm not tied up _. . . _No one here wants to hurt me _. . .)

"Ron?"

"This really sucks, Hermione."

She climbed off Ron's bed, and walked over to him.

"Ron, they're getting worse, aren't they? Your dreams."

Ron nodded. Hermione walked around the room, clearly in impenetrable thought.

She stopped pacing and turned slowly to look at Ron. Shaking her head, she lowered her gaze to his bedroom floor.

"Ron, I think the time has past where we can deal with these nightmares between the three of us." She spoke haltingly, emphasizing every word in her breathless, rhythmic staccato.

Ron knew that tone meant Hermione had been practicing and rehearsing exactly what she was going to say.

"Hermione—"

She held her hand up to stop him. "Listen to me. Ronald." She tacked on his full first name for good measure.

(_Okay, she means business._)

"Ron, these dreams and nightmares are clearly getting worse. Your own sensory system is already muddled with whatever brain or brains attacked you. I know—" she said as he started opening his mouth to interject. "I know that you've been applying the unction Madam Pomfrey gave to you. But I don't think you can just wait for the scars to go away on their own and hope that the dreams will stop too."

"But, Hermione—"

"What if they _don't,_ Ron? And even if your scars do fade eventually, the sensory overload you're going through might not! It's time." Hermione shook her head and walked away from Ron's gaping face. "Swallow your pride and talk to your family."

Ron hated it when he felt trapped.

He hated it when Hermione, as intelligent as the girl could be, pressured him or Harry into doing anything they didn't want to do.

Lord, she could make him feel like a child.

Not that he was the most _mature _person three-quarters of the time.

He rubbed his face vigorously with his hand.

"Hermione. I hear you, okay? But, look. It's not that bad. The nightmares come every so often. . . ."

"Every so often? Ron, it's practically _every_ _night_! It's . . ." She blinked slowly, taking in a deep breath through her mouth. "It's difficult for me to watch you go through this. And I know Harry feels the exact same way." Her bottom lip gave away a small tremble. "I'm here for you. Harry and I both are, you know that right?" Ron nodded, and she pressed forward. "But, you've got to talk someone about these nightmares and how they keep you from sleeping. And to make sure your mind won't suffer any residual effects from them."

Ron's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What d'you mean 'talk to someone'?"

Hermione's pacing took on a slightly more frantic speed.

"I've been thinking, Ron."

"What? You? I don't believe it!"

She ignored him. "You should consider scheduling an appointment with a Healer," Hermione began. "It would be best if there was a Healer who specialized in the magical equivalent of what Muggles call psychiatry. Or psychology. Essentially, you would be undergoing therapy for your mind."

"That sounds absolutely _insane_, Hermione. If there's something that I _don't_ need it's this mental—" Ron waggled his fingers around the side of his head, "this mental mumbo jumbo you're on about!"

Hermione stopped and turned to face Ron. Her face scrunched into a tight, little ball. Ron reckoned she was about to say something else that she was certain he wouldn't like.

"Ron, sometimes Muggles find it useful to talk to someone about really difficult experiences, or traumatic events that have happened to them that they need to work through. It's a trained person, someone who you can confide everything in and who won't tell anyone else what you tell them."

"Hermione, nothing's happened to _me—_"

"I know, but you're witnessing some very disturbing memories, are you not?"

Ron's sullen silence, punctuated by his foot kicking roughly at a warped plank of wood in the floor, all but answered her question.

"Ron?"

"Sounds stupid and barmy if you ask me."

"It's not." She moved to take a hold of his hands, but stopped. Instead, she folded her hands into each other. "Ron, they wouldn't exist if they weren't necessary. Loads of Muggles use them. I could, well, only if you want me to, of course — I mean, you have to _want_ to talk to them, if they are going to help you out. Ron, I-I could," she moved her hands, palms flat together, emphasizing each word she spoke, "I could get some information together, to see if there are any Healers that deal with emotional therapy for witches and wizards." Hermione looked at him seriously.

"I'll do it for you. But only if you want me to."

Ron regarded her carefully. Hermione got so many insane ideas into her head — and Ron desperately wanted to get through this on his own.

Hadn't he already done a lot on his own? Hadn't he already shown he was different? He'd started working toward something with Hermione. He'd started talking to Daphne Greengrass like she was an actual person rather than the snake in human skin that he thought all Slytherins were.

Like all the potential Death Eaters that they were . . .

(_Death Eaters that did _that _to that poor woman._)

(_Death Eaters that refer to You-Know-Who as a 'dark lord.' _. . . _just like the _lovely_ Daphne Greengrass _. . .)

Clearly, he still had reservations about Daphne.

(_Hogwarts wasn't built in a bloody day!_)

He _knew _he was getting better!

Wasn't he?

Cringing as he held his hands up in the air before him, Ron acquiesced to Hermione's browbeating.

(_Er _. . . _suggestions._)

"I'll listen to you, okay?" He watched Hermione's face break into a small grin and felt his insides squirm pleasurably. "Bring me whatever information you find, all right? I'll look at it . . . but I dunno if that's for me or whatever."

"It's starting somewhere, Ron, that's all." Hermione cocked her head and regarded him with a soft glance. "Do you want to talk to your parents?"

"Prob'ly." He shrugged his shoulders. "Think it'd do any good?" Hermione nodded.

"Ron, they can help you out—"

"But Mum'll get all fussy on me! She's going to treat me worse than a bloody baby when she finds out about all of this. And Fred and George'll take the piss outta me 'cause I'm the _Mental_ _One_! Not like how you're 'the Mental One,' but I'll be, like, bona fide, one-hundred-percent _mental_!" Ron's voice grew louder and higher. Hermione stormed forward, holding a hand in front of his face, and he quickly shut up.

"Don't ever, _EVER_ let anything or anyone stop you from seeking help, including what you _think_ your family _might_ do if you told them you need to talk to a Healer." She pointed a stern and indignant finger right at his nose. "If they ever treat you any less than the person _you_ _are_ because you were injured by an object stuck in the deepest, most unknown crevasses of the Department of Mysteries, and are now struggling with the most horrible and torturous images anyone could ever possibly conceive, and you ask for help to deal with all of this, then to _hell_ with them, all right? You've got to think about yourself, your needs! Don't think about anyone else, okay?"

Ron was utterly gobsmacked.

"You — you _swore_ Hermione! You said my family could go to hell!" He couldn't stop his laughter. Hermione glared at him briefly, then joined Ron in his laughing fit.

"Blimey!" Ron spoke breathlessly, wiping the tears from his eyes.

Suddenly, a brief, but scary thought passed through Ron's mind. He reckoned that Hermione probably wouldn't say anything, but he just wanted to make sure.

"Um, Hermione, you haven't told, erm, well — anyone else about this, have you?"

"Anyone? Like whom?"

"Well, Daphne, for one."

"No, Ron. I haven't told anyone. It's up to you to decide whom to tell."

"Oh."

Ron considered it for a moment. He had been doing better with Daphne . . . with some things. In a moment of weakness he had told her how he felt for Hermione, and she'd kept quiet.

Well, she had asked him about it, and he didn't necessarily bother correcting her.

Daphne had fought with them in the Department of Mysteries. Daphne had said she was wrong about him. That was quite a lot of fun for him. A Slytherin admitting she was wrong about something — and that something was him!

He definitely enjoyed that.

But, at dinner a week ago, she'd sounded like all the rest of the pureblood-loving pigs that followed You-Know-Who. She had even called him a "dark lord".

(_Bloody hell, if that wasn't your typical "Your-friend-may-be-a-Death-Eater" warning sign, I don't know _what_ is!_)

He realized he couldn't trust her . . . completely.

Not yet . . .

Maybe he never would . . .

And thinking that made Ron somewhat . . . sad.

Additionally, telling her something like this — that Ron was having nightmares — seemed like something a Slytherin would exploit if given the opportunity.

"Hermione, you won't tell her, will you?"

"Of course not, Ron. You should decide whom to tell or don't tell. I'll let you tell her if you want to."

"Okay. Thanks."

Hermione waved her hand. "Hey," Hermione said as she approached him. "Let's talk about this more tomorrow, okay? We really should get some sleep." Nodding decisively, Hermione walked toward his bed, fluffed his pillows, and straightened out his bed sheets. She then made for the spare bed Harry had been using.

Even though this had been their routine since Ron had started asking for her after his nightmares, Ron loved making a big show of Hermione crawling into the spare bed.

(_As if!_)

"How many times do we have to go over this, Hermione? You take my bed, and I'll take the spare!"

"Ron!" she said warningly. "You are NOT giving up your bed. I refuse . . ."

"Hermione, you should really listen when a crazy person tells you to do something." He swirled a finger in the air next to his temple and crossed his eyes. "I'm liable to do something _completely_ mad, and you won't be able to stop me!" She rolled her eyes, lopsidedly smirking at him. Ron giggled.

"Look, I'd feel better about this . . . whole 'me being nuts' thing…if you'd stay right where you are, and I'll sleep here, Okay?"

"You always say that!"

"And I always mean it,"

She tapped her foot twice, hand fisted on her hip, lips pressed in a firm line of resignation on her face.

"Hermione?"

"Fine, Ron. If it'll make you happy..."

"It always does, Hermione. It always does."

* * *

" 'Arry! 'Arry Pottair!" Ginny Weasley's hilariously over-the-top impression of Fleur's thick accent finally snapped Harry out of his stupor. "Do pay atten-zion to zee damn sneetch! In France, zere is none of zis drooling while flyeeng on your broom!" Ginny shouted at the Gryffindor Seeker, who, from her vantage point, was clearly distracted. 

"I beg to differ! I was not drooling!" Harry shouted back, as he wiped at his mouth with his hand and did a quick inspection of his clothes.

"Gotcha!" Ginny winked at him, and started flying around in circles around the paddock, zooming closer to the ground.

Harry, in his defense, had a perfectly good reason as to why he wasn't watching the 'damn sneetch'. The sun's rays had caught the perfect angle in Ginny's long red hair, as it billowed in the wind in beautiful, gold-streaked, auburn waves. Harry found himself looking more and more at Ginny, every day noticing something different. If it wasn't the different shades of red that seemed to play in her hair, it was a cute little freckle on her nose, a sharp, hearty laugh whenever anyone was able to properly tease Ron (and Daphne as well — the Slytherin girl _really_ should learn to not react so much!), or curves that Harry should've _never_ noticed on his best friend's sister.

However, Ginny was dating Dean Thomas.

(_And that is _that . . . _unless I fancy getting my bollocks hexed off 'accidentally'._)

Flying outside with Ginny, in the warmth of the Burrow's sun, Harry felt like a normal teenage wizard, with all the normal teenage worries and normal teenage thoughts and normal teenage desires—

(_Whoa_! _Slow down there, Potter!_)

"You know, Ginny," Harry spoke, his voice carrying through the air, "even though you do a fair impression of Fleur, she's not _so_ bad."

Ginny stared at him, clearly appalled.

"Oh, don't you dare tell me you too! I could barely keep my meals down, watching Ron trip and fall all over himself because of Phlegm." Ginny stuck her tongue out, gagging at the memory.

"No! Er, I mean, she's not really my type." Harry shook his head and tried to look disgusted at the thought of Fleur Delacour and him together. "Anyways, Ron seems to be over her. He doesn't trip and stumble all over her anymore."

"Maybe because he's too tired and worn out to pay attention to her." Ginny had just touched down onto the grassy field of the paddock. Harry came down just behind her, to her left.

"Wait. What do you mean?"

Ginny sighed. "Ron had another nightmare last night, didn't he?"

Harry started at her. "Wh-what? Of course not! Don't be ridiculous!"

"Harry, please. Between you stampeding into my bedroom to wake up Hermione and noticing the huge bags under Ron's eyes _and_ the fact he's been right grouchy this week _AND_ the fact that the prat keeps dozing off in the middle of meals and conversations, it's fairly obvious."

Harry sighed, blinking in defeat.

"Ginny, Ron didn't want us to say anything about it. Not to you, not to your parents. He's . . ." Harry waved his palms in front of his chest, searching for the right words to say, "he really doesn't want your brothers tearing him apart or your parents fussing over him."

"He's still a prat." Harry shrugged and nodded in agreement.

"He's probably being unreasonable."

Ginny cocked her eyebrow at him.

"Okay," Harry acquiesced, holding his hands up in front of him, "he's being unreasonable. Hermione's going to talk to him about it and see if she can't get him to come around."

"Do you think it's from the brains that nearly strangled him?"

Harry nodded silently.

Ginny looked away from him, toward the ground in front of them. In a most Ron-like gesture, she thrust her hands in to the pocket of her jeans.

"He should've talked to me," she began quietly. Harry turned to look at her. "I've had loads of nightmares after the stuff with Riddle's diary." Ginny shook her head. "Mum and Dad were really good about it, though. You didn't know about that?" Ginny looked up at him. Harry shook his head. Ginny's brow shot up in surprise. "Ron sort of took it upon himself to stay in the bedroom with me on a spare bed, y'know, to wake me up if it got out of control." Ginny smiled. "One good thing came out of it. When Dad won that award from work, the family decided we desperately needed a vacation and we got to go see Bill in Egypt."

Harry gave a slight chuckle and nodded; that was certainly something he could agree with.

Ginny continued talking. "Ron being there with me through all that…well, it really helped me out. Just knowing someone was there for me when . . ." Ginny stopped abruptly and swallowed; Harry rather thought she caught herself about to say something she shouldn't. "Um, right, erm . . . well, I was really grateful to Ron and all, and told him if he ever needed anything or to talk about anything, I'd be there for him."

"I'm sure he knows that, Ginny. Can't imagine he wouldn't appreciate that."

"Yeah, but he didn't come to me, Harry. He still only told you and Hermione." Ginny shook her head and sped forward. She was rubbing her forehead and marching at such a quick pace Harry could barely keep up with her. He reached out and grasped her arm.

"Wait, Ginny." He held up both palms to her to calm her down. Harry paused, collecting his thoughts.

(_How do I _tell_ her that Ron still needs her?_)

"Ginny, he's not replacing you with me or Hermione." He ignored Ginny's derisive laugh. "He's, well . . . Ginny it was different for you, okay? You're a girl, the baby of the family."

"Oh, bloody thanks, Harry." Ginny spun around on her heels, and made like she would storm off. "Bloody baby . . . thinks I'm too young . . . idiot . . ."

Harry rolled his eyes and chased her down.

(_Good grief! I can't win, can I?_)

"Ginny, listen to me, okay? Before you storm off again." Harry made a placating gesture with his hands. "Look, Ron thinks he's supposed to be your protector. He's supposed to watch out for you. He's supposed to take care of you. I mean, he's your brother, he _is_ older than you, and he's a bloke." Ginny looked at him from the corners of her eyes; even though her face registered her skepticism, Harry could tell she was at least listening to him. "He doesn't want your family, particularly you, to think that he's weak, and," he spoke rapidly, hoping to get this all out to her so she'd understand, "he's seen me at my weakest too — last year, with all those nightmares. And Hermione's, well, you know. She's Hermione. It's sort of different with her, now. Right?" Ginny gave a small snort and lopsided smile at this. She slowly blinked.

"Yeah. It's different with her."

"Right. But don't think he doesn't need you. He does. It's just . . ."

"He's being a great, stubborn, stupid bloody idiot, is all."

"Well, when you put it like that—"

"HEY! Potter! Girl-Wealsey! Lunch is ready!" Harry and Ginny jumped at Daphne's voice, bellowing from the house.

Harry caught Ginny's eye. "Girl-Weasley?" he asked.

Ginny could only shrug and roll her eyes. "Who knows. It's better than anything else she could've come up with. Hey, race you!" Ginny slapped Harry's chest hard, and bolted for the door.

Harry, standing shocked at the physical contact, realized he was giving her a tremendous head start, and raced after her. Gasping for air, they nearly knocked each other down in the doorway.

* * *

"Oh, you're up?" 

"Obviously. Couldn't sleep." Ron scratched his stomach and stretched lazily.

"Mmm. Same here. Want some bread and milk?"

Daphne was at the same routine she had been at for the past four days; she stood behind the stove with a small pot of warmed milk. A loaf of day-old bread was at her right. Ron watched her as she mixed in a few tablespoons of sugar and two capfuls of vanilla. She continued to stir the pot.

"What's that?" he asked her. Daphne tried to ignore the residual stiffness in his voice.

"It's an old family recipe of Miss Proct- . . . um, Elvira's. She'd sometimes make it for us when we couldn't sleep."

"Seems different."

"You should give it a whirl. See if you'd like it. It always seemed to help calm us down." Daphne cringed at the way she sounded. Swapping fond memories of her home in London didn't seem to mesh well with who she was.

She hated such sentimentality. She also hated talking about her childhood to anyone.

(_Thank you to Malfoy, by the way, for making sure _that_ would happen!_)

Placing a bowl in front of her and Ron, she took slices of white bread, tearing them up and tossing them into each one. She poured half of the warm milk on her bread and gave the other half to Ron. She brought the bowl of sugar between them.

"I like mine on the sweet side," she told him.

(_Upholding the image of Slytherin _brilliantly_, Greengrass!_)

Spoons tinkling against the glazed bowls, Daphne and Ron sat in silence for a spell. While it remained quiet, Daphne took the opportunity to study Ron.

Toward the beginning of the summer, Ron had seemed like 'Normal Ron'. There hadn't been any physical changes to him other than the scars from the brain attack. However, as the summer wore on, Daphne had noticed some subtle changes in his appearance. He seemed somewhat more diminished than usual — thinner and more slight in his frame. His face appeared fatigued, with dark circles appearing under his eyes more often than not.

Clearly, since he was up and about in the middle of the night, Ron was having as much trouble sleeping as Daphne was.

This was the fourth night in a row she hadn't been able to sleep . . . since _that _dinner. After her second night of tossing and turning, Daphne had made her way to the kitchen and fixed herself Elvira Proctor's sure-fire Muggle remedy for life's problems — bread and milk. After a single bowl and a moment to gather her thoughts, Daphne could finally return to Percy's bedroom, confident she'd finally fall asleep.

However, this was the first night she'd had company in her ritual, and the sight of Ron across from her, after the many days of awkward silences and pointed avoidance, caused a stirring inside of Daphne's stomach. She tapped her nails against the side of the chipped blue bowl and chewed on her lower lip. Her leg bobbed rapidly under the table; she knew it was making everything shake, but she just couldn't stop.

Daphne's spoon clanked against her bowl and she pushed it away from her. Ron looked at her with a stern, curious expression etched into his face.

"I should never have called Voldemort _that_, Ron." Daphne whispered in a great rush. She watched as Ron shuddered as she uttered the name. At times, she was able to ignore Ron's reactions — hell, many times, she'd say "Voldemort"over and over again until Ron bolted far away from her — but now, just for tonight, she wouldn't say the name to him.

There were too many other things she needed to get off her chest.

Ron creased his brow but he continued to watch her. Daphne, who hadn't looked at him when she'd apologized, forced herself to meet his eyes tonight. "It just slipped out. I suppose I can blame living in Slytherin for five years for getting in my head. I don't know. All I know is I felt horrible saying it a week ago, I've felt awful for saying it every day since then, and I still feel awful now, even after saying I'm sorry." Ron looked back down at his bowl.

(_Well, the quieter he is, the more I can just _. . . _talk, right?_)

"It was Cedric," Daphne spoke quietly to the redhead. Their eyes met across the table. Daphne swallowed; she hated that Cedric's death still affected her.

"I'm sure they must have told you already, but I didn't tell you." Daphne's hands rubbed against her bowl, causing it to turn around and around. "I was sitting really close in the stands, when I saw the two of them return. Harry and Cedric."

Daphne bit the inside of her cheeks.

(_Do not cry, dammit! Do not let the prat see you cry!_)

"I kept hearing one of the boys was dead. I couldn't believe it." Taking a deep breath, Daphne looked at Ron, who was staring at her with a stern expression.

(_Well, should I be thankful he's at least listening to me?_)

"I ran down to see it; I mean — who wouldn't want to see that? I was curious, right? When I got to the grounds, the first thing I saw was Harry crying."

Daphne shook her head, and looked down at the bowl.

"The only time I've ever seen another boy cry was when I was 7. I wasn't where I should have been, and I overheard a caseworker in her office talking to this boy about being . . ." Daphne hesitated, feeling her lip tremble; she couldn't say it. "I-I mean . . . the walls were thin, right? And the door was just open enough for me to see this kid, sitting in this dreary office, and he was crying. Great, shuddering gasps." Daphne swallowed, and continued to speak, "I saw Harry and then I kept flashing back to the boy . . ." she closed her eyes, shaking her head trying to clear the images . . .

_Unseeing shiny eyes _. . .

_Harry's own green eyes wild. He's screaming, _"_DUMBLEDORE! _DUMBLEDORE!"

"—_Tim, this is important." She slapped the file on the desk as the clock ticked on the wall, "What happened?"_

"DUMBLEDORE! _Help!"_

"—_My God, Diggory!"_

". . . _Ms. Parker, it was my father _. . . _he _. . . _I can't talk about it."_

"NO! _That's my son! That's my son! CEDRIC! _CEDRIC!_"_

Daphne's head fell into her hands. The confluence of images always overwhelmed her.

Each image followed the other in a grim tableau of innocence lost, of violence against such fragile humanity. Daphne couldn't help but see those gray cheekbones, the boy lying on the ground . . . the boy crying and screaming for help . . . the boy sitting in a torn green chair, small bits of plaster falling from cracks in the ceiling . . .

And the dead child's father, crying out for the son he had just lost . . .

She looked up, inhaling loudly.

"I heard Mr. and Mrs. Diggory calling out for Cedric. They were so excited at first. I heard—" Daphne couldn't stop the choking sound in her voice, like she was being slowly strangled. Her eyes were watering; through the dampness, she could see Ron looking at her. His face, distorted through her tears, seemed to have softened. "I heard his mum crying. She was saying his name, 'Cedric? CEDRIC! _CEDRIC_!' "

"After, I went up…I mean, down, to the dungeons, to the Slytherin common room. All night long, I kept hearing;

_"Figures some idiot Hufflepuff'd snuff it!"_

_"—he was just some dirty-blooded pretty boy."_

_"I thought he was full pureblood?"_

_"Why couldn't he have been a Mudblood?"_

_"His dad works at the ministry."_

_"Who bloody cares? Pumpkin pastie, anyone?"_

"I wanted to scream at them 'I CARE, YOU FUCKING ZOMBIES! HE DIED! YOU SHOULD CRY BECAUSED HE'S DEAD!' It didn't matter that I'd never said more than two words to him. I'd never thought he was attractive or paid him any attention until he became a champion. He was someone who wasn't where he should be, and Vold—" she stopped, watching Ron tense up, "and You-Know-Who killed him."

Daphne knew she was crying in earnest in front of Ron; somehow, any pretense of staying cold, detached, cynical — it crumbled to the ground.

(_Like Cedric._)

She felt something soft touch her hand. Looking down, a white handkerchief was lying next to her on the table. She looked at Ron, whose face was inscrutable. He was about to go upstairs.

"Will you be able to sleep, Daphne?" Taking the handkerchief into her hands, Daphne nodded.

"Think so." Her voice sounded thick and muffled.

Ron nodded to her. He kept looking at her, silence passing between them.

"Well, g'night then." Ron turned and went up the stairs.

Daphne sat at the table, dragging the handkerchief down her cheeks.


	6. Chapter 5: Weasley Family Counsel

**A/N: **Thanks to Tincat for the beta-work, once again. I own nothing.

It's the day after Ron and Daphne's talk. Daphne wakes up, Ginny talks to Ron, who decide to seek help, and Daphne's confused about so many, many things. Rated T for strong language.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 5: Weasley Family Counsel**

Daphne awoke to find she wasn't in Percy's bedroom, the space the Weasleys let her use while she stayed at the Burrow.

She saw the fireplace, with a mantle full of pictures of red-haired children and adults. The sun was streaming through the curtains. And someone was making a fair bit of noise in the kitchen. . . .

(_Oh, I slept in their living room._)

Someone had laid a faded quilt around her. Slowly sitting up and rubbing her neck, she saw she was still holding Ron's handkerchief. On the wooden coffee table in front of her, there was a steaming cup of cocoa.

Daphne shifted uncomfortably in the couch cushions, tossing the handkerchief onto the table. She didn't ask for that. She didn't _want _this — this _charity. _

No matter how good it felt. . . .

"You're up? Good! You can go ahead upstairs and wash up before breakfast." Mrs. Weasley was bustling around, cooking sausages, soft-boiled eggs, and toast. Picking up the piping hot beverage, Daphne swallowed her pride, along with the creamy, sweet drink.

It did wonders for her, as she noticed her mood lighten considerably.

(_Do all mums make kids feel better with food and drinks? Is there some handbook that tells them what we need or something?_)

Opening her eyes, she saw the older woman standing before her. Her eyes seemed…not too harsh, as she regarded the teenage Slytherin. Mrs. Weasley gave her a small smile, meant to comfort the young girl.

"You'd fallen asleep at the table last night. Arthur came home late and put you on the couch," Mrs. Weasley spoke gently. Daphne felt herself nod; it was much easier to let the woman talk so she could enjoy her drink.

"I noticed there were two bowls out on the table."

"Oh," Daphne said, "Well, I couldn't sleep, and actually — well, Weas- . . . er, Ron couldn't either. I made us something that I thought might help us both get to bed." Molly nodded. "I — should've put them away, Mrs. Weasley." Daphne said after a moment.

"Never mind, dear. Arthur said when he found you, you looked a right state." Molly made to sit by Daphne. "Did you and Ron fight?"

Daphne shook her head. "No," she gave a small, feeble snort, "not this time." Daphne looked at Molly, who appeared a bit taken aback. Clearing her throat, Daphne said, "I said I'm sorry to him, about last week." She looked at her feet. "Still am."

Molly nodded and seemed to understand.

"I'm sorry to you too, er, Mrs. Weasley." Daphne couldn't look at her; her eyes stayed rooted onto her feet.

"You've already apologized once dear," Mrs. Weasley said.

"Er…" Daphne interrupted, "well, I know. I feel," Daphne waved her hands in front of her as she struggled through what she wanted to say. "Mrs. Weasley, I just guess I need to say it to you again." Daphne let out a breath she didn't now she'd been holding.

Mrs. Weasley tipped her head to the side, and gave Daphne a little sympathetic grin. "Never mind that, dear. Water under the bridge, okay?" She patted Daphne's knees and stood up. "Why don't you go to the bathroom and clean yourself up. Everyone else except for Arthur and myself should still be in bed."

Daphne nodded and headed upstairs.

"Daaaaaph-neh," she heard as she turned the doorknob to the second floor bathroom. Hermione spoke in mid yawn, stretching and walking toward the bathroom herself. "You're up ear— oh, Daphne!" Hermione grabbed her shoulders to make Daphne turn around. "Are you okay? You look like you've been crying!"

Hermione looked so earnest and concerned about her, that Daphne's snide retort (_No! I've been tanning and injecting myself with shellfish, so just excuse the redness and puffy face!_) died completely on her lips. "M'fine, Hermione." Daphne coughed. "Can I step into the bathroom quickly?" 

"Sure. I'll just be out here."

When Daphne was able to get a better look at herself, she thought she looked rather like a boy. The blotchiness and swollen cheeks and eyes from her crying the night before had sucked any trace of femininity out of her appearance. She could barely make out any sort of definition in her face, and all her features blurred together.

She snorted.

(_As if you've ever cared what you look like!_)

Daphne set forth brushing her teeth and cleaning her face.

* * *

"Prat!" Ginny smacked Ron squarely on the head with a couch cushion. Ron rubbed the back of his neck. 

"Ow! What the hell was that for?"

Ginny plopped down next to him on the couch at the Burrow's sitting room. Her brown eyes stared ferociously at him. After a moment of mutual glaring between the two siblings, Ginny found a bare patch of skin on his arm and pinched him. Hard.

"_Ron_!" Ron looked at Ginny.

"What?"

"Where in the world did you go? I've been saying your name a thousand times. You just sat there like a flobberworm — or petrified flobberworm — and didn't move a muscle."

Ron shifted uncomfortably.

"What happened before I 'just sat here' like you said?" Ron watched as Ginny's brow creased, troubled and confused.

"Well," Ginny said, shifting on the cushions of the couch to better face her brother, "you sort of…stared at me, for a few seconds."

Ron pulled his lips together.

(_If I just hadn't let her touch me_ . . .)

"Ron? What's going on?" Ginny leaned forward; Ron knew that she was trying to get him to look at her. Groaning, he leaned forward, putting his face in his hands, and wished that his sister would suddenly learn to Disapparate.

"I know, Ron. I know something's up. Mum keeps talking to Dad about you — '_Arthur, he won't let me come near him! He just runs _away_. He can't even let his own mother hug him.' _" Ginny gave him a scarily stern glare. "And don't think I haven't noticed you spacing out on us too. You keep falling asleep at meals, and you'll miss breakfast, sometimes even lunch!" She sat, her blasted glare stuck on his face, arms crossed tightly in front of her chest. Ron didn't say anything. He kept his head in his hands.

(_If you don't look at her, she'll go away_ . . .)

"I know, Ron."

Ron cocked his eyebrow at her.

"What do you think you know, brat?"

"Your nightmares. You told Harry and Hermione about your ruddy nightmares, but you couldn't tell me?"

Ron threw his head back, about to bellow for his scrawny, bespectacled best friend. Ginny simply tutted at him.

"He's not upstairs; he's not anywhere nearby for you to yell at. It's just you and me . . ." she added, "Git."

Ron glared at her. "Leave it alone, _Ginevra_!"

"I will not, _Ronald Bilius_!" Ginny shot back stubbornly.

Ron was sure he was giving his little sister the iciest, coolest stare he could conjure.

Of course, she wasn't fazed by him at all.

Ginny's expression softened, and she gave her brother a small, rueful, smile. "Ron, can I say something?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "You slept in my bedroom when I had all those nightmares about Riddle." Ginny turned her gaze toward the Weasley's fireplace. "You were the one who woke me up and stayed with me when I was screaming and throwing myself this way and that.

"You protected me, Ron." She turned back to face Ron, eyes soft and wide, expecting an answer — any answer, good or bad — from her brother. "Why wouldn't you just talk to me?"

Neither of them spoke for a moment. He was looking at his feet, shadows flickering on the faded orange, brown and red rug lying in front of the Burrow's fireplace. Ron shrugged.

"Ginny . . ." he began, but his voice sounded like it had caught in his throat. Ron coughed, trying to regain his ability to speak. Looking up, he noticed Ginny's faced seemed to register a million emotions. He hoped — for no more than a millisecond — that she felt a little guilt about all of this.

She knew she was pushing him and forcing him to talk before he was ready. And if there was one thing Ron hated, it was being pushed around . . . especially by a bossy little squirt like Ginny.

But he knew she was trying to help. She could just be so bloody persistent.

After a few moments, Ron finally found his voice.

"It's, er, well," Ron faltered. "It's a bit different for blokes, innit?" Ginny's brow creased in confusion.

"What do you mean, Ron?"

"Well, we don't really talk about . . . things," Ron said, with a bit of a disgusted sneer, as if talking right now was the absolute worst thing he could do.

Ginny rolled her eyes.

"No, Gin, really. It's okay if I take care of you. You're my younger sister and all, in case you forgot!" Ron gave her a small, lopsided smile. Ginny returned a smile of her own. "And plus, I wanted to make up with you about that year and all."

"_Ron_!" Ginny glared at him fiercely. "You can't possibly still feel guilty about _that_? It wasn't anyone's fault except Riddle's — and Lucius Malfoy's," she said after a moment. Ron shook his head, visibly disagreeing with her.

"Ginny, I promised Mum and Dad I'd look out for you and make sure you were okay your first year. And thank Godric _nothing_ happened," he said dryly while rolling his eyes. "Except that you got all possessed by an evil wizard who used you to petrify a bunch of Muggle-borns. One of which," he threw his thumb over his shoulder, "is my best friend that I'm also currently…erm, uh, nevermind."

Ignoring the last part of Ron's comment — which usually would have Ginny's teasing him until he turned ten shades of red — she just shook her head in exasperation. This was old territory with them, and Ginny wasn't sure what she could say to help him move past it.

"There's absolutely nothing at this point that I can tell you this wasn't your fault, is there, Ron?"

"But, Ginny, don't you see? It was. I couldn't protect . . ." Ginny raised a hand to stop Ron's speech.

"Please. I've heard this so many times before, I'm not going to hear it again." Ginny sighed softly and looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. "Hermione's right, Ron. I hope you do talk to someone about this." She heard, rather than saw, Ron's outraged huff. "Oh, don't be silly, Ron! She never told me about it. Aren't I related to Fred and George Weasley?" She looked at him, her face a study in wide-eyed mock innocence, fingers tented on her chest. Ron rolled his eyes.

"Extendable Ears," they said in unison. They looked at each other for a moment, then laughed.

Ron looked squarely at Ginny.

"Am I really that mental?"

Stopping the answer she wanted to say from rolling out of her, Ginny sincerely regarded her brother.

"It's not about you being 'mental' Ron. It's about you needing help and time to work through this." Ginny cocked her head, looking at Ron with contemplative eyes. "And you can speak to somebody who knows what they're doing."

"But you just talked to me and Mum and Dad. You didn't need anyone else!"

"That's not entirely true." Ginny wrung her hands, and fingered a loose thread on the couch's fraying seam. "Mum and Dad took me to an Emotional Healer."

"What? When? We never knew about that!"

"Well, it wasn't something I wanted to advertise, even to the rest of the family. I asked them not to tell anyone about it, okay? I still really don't want anyone else to know, Ron."

"So, what was it like?"

Ginny shrugged, but continued to meet Ron's eyes. "Loads of talking. 'How are you feeling today?' 'What's going on?' 'What do you want to talk about?' The lady I saw just wanted me to talk about anything I wanted to. She let me work up to talking about the big stuff — my nightmares and the diary. She and Dumbledore made arrangements so I could meet with her in the hospital wing at Hogwarts during my second year."

Ron blinked. What Ginny told him didn't seem _too_ awful.

He was good at just _talking_.

"Did it help?"

Ginny looked to her right, apparently recalling the sessions. "I think so. She never _told_ me how I should be thinking or feeling, unless I asked her if it was normal for me to think or feel a particular way. I mean — I could tell her anything, she wasn't going to tease me or blab to Mum, Dad or the twins." Ginny met Ron's eyes. "I did stop having nightmares, though. Getting it all out of me like I did made me less afraid of things. Talking through the . . . things I saw while I slept, and I couldn't defend myself from them — I was able to confront them when I spoke with the Healer."

Ron suddenly became defensive.

"What the hell makes you think I'm afraid?"

"Ron, it's alright to be scared. It's normal. It's human. If you weren't scared — or you didn't _think_ about what was going on in your head, we'd just be . . . I don't know—"

"Inferi? Dementor fodder? Crabbe and Goyle?" Ron offered. Ginny nodded and laughed in apparent agreement.

Ron pondered Ginny's recent revelations and insights. This whole "talking to someone" idea didn't seem so awful, so long as he could go at his own pace. No one would get him to talk about 'things' if he didn't want to talk. . . .

"So, what's the verdict?" Ron asked with a lilt in his voice. He slapped the couch cushion between him and Ginny. "Am I mental or not?"

Ginny had to think about that for a moment.

"Definitely…_gottagowithmental_!" Ginny yelled, as she jumped off the couch and pounded Ron in the head with two pillows.

Grabbing the nearest cushion, Ron chased after her.

"Hey! Yer in for it now, runt!"

"Whatever! You're about as graceful as Hagrid riding a Norwegian Ridgeback!"

The youngest Weasley siblings spent the greater part of the afternoon screaming at the top of their lungs, engaged in a pillow fight to the death.

* * *

"How in the world does one go about writing a manifesto? 'We submit that, yada, yada, yada, Voldemort is a big, slimy git!'" 

Daphne threw down her quill. She looked over to her companion on the other side of the table. Hermione was busy scribbling away at her pre-term review notes covering her first read-through of their _Advanced Ancient Runes: Translation, Theory and Application, Year Six_. Pushing down any annoying twinges of guilt so she could focus on her own pressing task, Daphne rubbed at her eyes with the palm of her hands.

After agreeing to Dumbledore's request, she found herself at a loss; how in the world was she supposed to overturn a gazillion centuries of tradition in a single school year?

(_I mean he's just being stupid with me now!_)

"Hermione!"

"What?"

"Bloody help me out here!" Daphne frantically waved her arms about. "This was your idea," she said, jerkily jamming her finger in the air in between her and the Gryffindor.

Hermione gave an almighty huff and rubbed her eyes. "What did Professor Dumbledore ask you to do, exactly?"

"I've _told_ you already. He wants me to go around and get all of our runts onto your lot's side."

"You did fight with us, Daphne. Have you already forgotten that?" Hermione looked at her with a very deliberate stare. Daphne shifted her gaze to the woodsy kitchen floor and the threadbare rug laying ripped, torn and stained beneath her feet.

"It's possible." Daphne couldn't keep the disappointment, the sound of premature defeat from creeping into her voice. When she looked up, she saw Hermione's face shadowed with worry.

Hermione grasped Daphne's hand. The Slytherin flinched at such an uncharacteristic show of physical connection from the bushy-haired girl.

"You sound just like Ron, you know that?" Hermione sounded so serious, Daphne had to laugh at her. "What?"

"Granger, are you looking for a good shag or something?" Hermione pulled away and looked at Daphne, shaking her head.

"Really, you don't have to be so vulgar!" Hermione gave Daphne one of her "I-Can't-Believe-You-Just-Said-That" looks, usually reserved for Harry or Ron.

(_Well, mostly for Ron!_)

Hermione blinked for a long time, and returned her gaze to Daphne. "Would you just let me explain what I meant?" Daphne's sarcastic grin faded, replaced with a more serious and straightforward expression. She nodded at the Gryffindor to continue while avoiding her eyes.

"I . . . I _might_ have been a bit, er, _overzealous_ when you first told me about Dumbledore's request. Don't worry about things like manifestos, or grand declarations or anything like that." Hermione and Daphne looked at each other. "Daphne, I don't think those things are necessary. I think that, in order for you to talk to them and argue your side, you have to believe in your side. And be honest with them."

About the moment Daphne would have asked Hermione to tell her what she should think about things, Ron poked his head in the dining room.

"Ron?" Hermione asked. "What's going on?"

"Hey, Daphne. Um, can I borrow Hermione for a moment?"

"She's your girl, not mine." Daphne muttered, shrugging. She felt Hermione leave the table and follow Ron outside. Daphne set back to her blank parchment.

(_Great Godric's nutsack, this is impossible! How'm I gonna do this?_)

It wasn't like Slytherins were the most selfless people. Slytherins looked out for themselves, first and foremost. They were sly little shits, cunning in their need for self-preservation, and looked for power in any shape or form that they could get. They'd stay out of conflict if it suited them. It was well nigh possible for a Slytherin to switch sides in a hot minute if they found it served their ultimate purpose.

Daphne couldn't even be sure of her own commitment to Harry's cause.

But, what about what she felt when she saw Cedric's dead body? What about how she _still_ _felt_ about seeing Cedric's dead body? Clearly, she wasn't over that yet.

Wasn't she a Slytherin? The Sorting Hat didn't waver when it sorted her. The Sorting Hat didn't say, "Oh, you seem smart? Why not try Ravenclaw?" "Well, you can be really thick about things, maybe — Hufflepuff?" "Oh, you operate well under delusions of grandeur and think you're a god. Better be . . . _Gryffindor_!"

No, she was right where she should have been. Slytherin. So, she was supposed to be selfish, cunning, ambitious, power-hungry…and apparently evil.

But what about her own beliefs about magical purity? She had no problem accepting that purebloods might be the most magically powerful wizards. Half-Bloods, like her, she guessed, would be weaker, but Mudbloods were dirty. Mudbloods stole their powers from an unsuspecting wizard. Mudbloods were weak, pure-blood wannabes. Mudbloods sought usurpation and superiority in the wizarding world. . . .

That's what she'd been told for the past 5 years. That was part of her introduction to the wizarding world, courtesy of a handful of the most vocal, the most _persistent_ of her Slytherin housemates.

But what about Neville _Dung_bottom?

(_Shut up! I couldn't resist!_)

What about Hermione Granger? They bucked the trend, didn't they? Daphne had yet to meet a pure-blood (_or half-blood_) that could compare to Hermione's intelligence and skill with a wand.

And Longbottom was a walking wizarding disaster.

(_He got better with defense._)

(_Whose bloody side are you on, anyways?_)

And Malfoy? For all his pronouncements, Malfoy was the biggest twat Daphne'd ever met.

And when the other Slytherins talked about Cedric . . . she couldn't stomach that.

Wasn't she supposed to if she was a Slytherin?

Why, why why? Why did Dumbledore . . . why did _he_ throw her lot in with these stupidly noble Gryffindors? She banged her head on the table — _once_, _twice, thrice_.

(_You suck, Greengrass!_)

Daphne rubbed at her face, pressing hard into her skin. She was confused.

And how could a girl this confused change anyone's mind?

* * *

"Daphne okay?" Ron asked Hermione as soon as they stepped out into the sunlit grass of the Burrow's front yard. Hermione's eyebrows arched in a strange mix of curious skepticism. 

"You're worried about her?"

"Well, er . . . uh," Ron shifted nervously. "We, or more like _she,_ talked last night." Ron grabbed the back of his neck, wringing it vigorously. "She told me about Cedric."

"Oh!" Hermione breathed out loud. "Well, that does explain how she looked this morning."

"How d'you mean?"

"She looked like she spent the better part of the night crying."

Ron stood still, biting his cheeks and his lips, looking a bit responsible.

"Oh," he said after a while. Hermione regarded him carefully.

"I think it's indicating a larger issue for Daphne." Hermione spoke as she walked further out toward the front garden. "She's a bit stressed at the moment." Ron's eyebrow shot up inquisitively. "She's worried about going back to school, and what Dumbledore's asking her to do." Hermione gave a rueful laugh. "I suspect she doesn't fancy being the voice of dissent among the Slytherins."

Ron nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that figures. Have you noticed, Hermione, that she seems to be, I don't know—"

"She's jumpy and snaps at people no matter what. Her mood shifts quicker than a Snitch in midair, and her jokes are getting more and more inappropriate. Not that they were all that pleasant before."

"Well, yeah," said Ron.

Hermione sighed.

"I think her moods are the product of her stress, Ron. " She rubbed her forehead. "I could talk to her."

Ron snorted. "Dunno how productive that'd be. Tell her she's done something wrong, and she'll hex your bollocks off!"

It was Hermione's turn to snort. "Pot, meet kettle."

"Huh?"

"Just that — oh, never mind. Are you ready to tell them?"

Ron's demeanor instantly changed. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his long denim cutoffs as his eyes drifted downward, not really seeing anything.

"Guess there's no time's like the present, eh?"

"Ron, I'll be here with you, okay? I'll be with you through the whole thing."

"Promise?" He looked up at her hopefully, expectantly.

She nodded firmly.

"Promise."

* * *

Ron scratched his forehead vigorously. His nerves were threatening to get the better of him. 

"Son?" Arthur Weasley asked him.

"Yeah, Dad?"

Arthur looked at Molly, nodding slightly, mouth upturned with a small, resolute grin. He turned back towards Ron.

"Take your time. You don't have to talk to us unless you're ready."

(_How did he know?_)

"Dad, that — that's just it! I need to tell you _now_," he shook his palms in front of him in frustration, "or else I'll lose my nerve."

"Ronnie, dear," his mum said. Ron cringed; he knew his mum was trying to make him feel good, to reassure him, but he _hated_ being called 'Ronnie'. "We'll get through this . . . whatever it is."

"Ron?" Hermione began. Ron shook his head.

"S'all right, Hermione." He took a deep breath and ploughed on through it. "Mum, Dad. I've been having nightmares from the brain thing that attacked me, it's affecting my senses and I can't seem to touch anyone without going barmy and shaking or having a fit or something. Oh, and a few days ago, I, er—" Ron stopped himself before he mentioned Hermione's and his 'almost kiss.' "Well, Hermione tried to comfort me, and I almost hit her accidentally."

He paused briefly.

"Um, they're probably connected," Ron added after a while, when his parents didn't say anything after a beat.

"Why didn't you say anything before, Ron?" his dad asked him. Ron looked past him toward the wall.

"I didn't want you to worry 'bout me. I've already gotten into loads of trouble, with the Department of Mystery stuff." He shrugged. "And I've been using Pomfrey's unction. Thought that would sort it out." He watched his mum tear up and she moved to sit next to him. Ron threw his arms out, blocking her.

"MUM! WAIT!" Ron practically shouted at her. Breathing heavily at the thought of her hugging him, Ron collected himself quickly as he saw his mother's face fall. She brought her hands to her face, shaking as she covered her mouth.

"Oh, my little Ronnie! I wish I had known! Here I've been yelling at you, forcing things on you . . ."

"No, Mum. All that's fine! I mean, s'not really," Ron looked disgusted about something. "I'd prefer if I didn't have to do chores. But, it's," he fluttered a bit, searching for the right words, "it's normal. It makes me feel normal, when you make me do things around here." His mum shook her head, looking at her knees as she spoke to her husband.

"Arthur, we should have brought him to her straightaway! We shouldn't have waited . . ."

"Molly, remember? Healer Auditor said he's practically of age, old enough to make his own decisions if he needs to talk about it with someone . . ."

"But he's my _baby_!" his mum said in a whispery, yet emotional voice. "He's my youngest son. He's still a child."

Ron glared at Hermione, who cocked her head and gave him a look warning him, "Don't say it even though I know you want to, Ron!"

"Even so, Molly," Arthur said in an even voice. "We can't pressure him until he's ready. All the materials that Healer Auditor gave to us said the very same thing. If he's ready now . . ."

"We should have made him—"

"You can't force this on him, Molly. He's a year from being of age. And he's been through more than most adults twice as old as he is!"

Ron rolled his eyes at his parents.

(_Did they just completely forget I'm even here? Typical.)_

Ron intervened before the argument about whether or not to treat him like a child or an adult could get any worse.

"Mum, Dad. Talk to who?"

Arthur and Molly stopped and look at their youngest boy, then back at each other. Molly nodded to Arthur, and Ron watched as his father reached into his pocket and pulled out a cream-colored card. His dad handed the card to him, which had a single name and job title:

**FLORA M. AUDITOR**

**Emotional Healer**

**Magical and Muggle Traumas Ward**

**4th Floor, St. Mungo's**

Ron looked swiftly between his parents and Hermione. His parents were staring at him, trepidation and worry written starkly over their faces. Hermione looked at the name, comprehension dawning on her face.

"Wait, who's this Flora Auditor?" Ron asked, suspicion starting to mingle with anger. His parents didn't answer him right away.

"Mum? Dad? Have you been talking to someone about me _behind_ _my_ _back_?"

Arthur finally responded in a soothing voice.

"Not in the way you think, Ron." His dad's tone did nothing to calm Ron's temper. "Son, we," he put his arm around Molly, who couldn't look at Ron, and was trembling trying to control her crying, "we've had some experience with Healer Auditor for a few years." Arthur sighed and let out a slow and steady breath. "Ginny told us that you know about her Emotional Healer that she saw after her first year. Well, Ron, she saw Healer Auditor. We reconnected with her after you two were injured, just in case we needed her services again."

Arthur looked down, to his right. Bringing his hand up to his face, he gave a small cough, hand lingering in front of his mouth for a minute. Ron noticed a slight tremor in his father's fingers.

"Son, let me talk for a moment, okay?" Arthur spoke again softly — almost whispering — with a small, slightly rueful smile.

Reluctantly, Ron nodded.

"Ron, I'd like to think that our children came to your mother and myself in these amazing, perfect packages." Looking down, Arthur gave a small chuckle. "When each of you first came into this world, I thought to myself, 'Merlin's Beard! What perfect babies!' I saw you and your brothers and sister, and convinced myself that there was nothing in this world that could tarnish you. Every single one of you, from Bill, to Charlie, to Percy, to Fred and George, to you and to Ginny came to your mother and me as these precious gifts. I looked at each one of you in turn, and I vowed, every single time, that I would never let any darkness or evil touch you. I would give everything I had — my very _life _— to make sure all of yours stayed good and beautiful."

Here, Arthur's voice halted. Molly took hold of his hand.

To his left, Ron heard a sniffle. When he looked over to Hermione, she had turned her head away from him and his parents. Swallowing, Ron faced his parents again. He saw his father's sad eyes.

"But you and Ginny, in particular, grew up. Far faster than we would've liked! Your mother and I both watched as our two youngest children showed this remarkable amount of bravery — the likes of which I have never seen in myself, much less in anyone your age. I was so scared, Ron, because I thought for sure that you two would change. Who wouldn't after having lived through the things the both of you did?

"But, there you two were. Our youngest son. Our youngest daughter. And the both of you _never_ _lost_ _yourselves_! Despite encountering such evil, such darkness, the both of you kept . . . you kept your spark, your _fire_! You've kept everything that makes the both of you, well, _you_!" Arthur's eyes shone brightly upon Ron.

Under such a powerful, fatherly gaze, Ron couldn't help but sit higher, his mouth turning upwards in a small, humble grin.

"You're still you, Ron! You're still the baby we held and whose nappies we changed. You're still the little boy that cried when Bill and Charlie left home. You're still the son that clung to my leg when Fred and George tried to put a garden gnome down your pants. You're still the son that stood up for Ginny and her doll when those children from the village threatened to steal it from her. You're still the same Ron that Percy taught chess to. And you're still the son I had when you came running with a parchment in your hand, so excited to be going to Hogwarts and joining Percy and the twins because that meant you were a big boy! Ron, you'll forever be Ron. No matter what. No one's broken you. No one's changed you. Healer Auditor won't change you either. She's a way that we — your mother and myself — can make sure you will always be _you_, so you can overcome whatever darkness you're facing now, and whatever darkness you might face in the future."

Ron could only look at the card. He flipped it in his fingers, folding the corner into a tiny triangle, creasing it until the fold bulged out.

He couldn't talk. Not after what his dad had just said. Talking was the absolute _worst _thing he could do right now.

Talking would cause his chest to burst.

Talking would make the water in his eyes spill out.

Instead, Ron simply nodded. He heard his father let out a breath of relief, and clap his hands.

"Son, thank you. We'll floo her first thing in the morning. We'll also set up an appointment with a General Healer at St. Mungo's."

"Well," Molly got up from the chair, dabbing at her eyes with her apron, "let's go make some hot chocolate!" She bustled toward her stove, sniffing the whole way, fetching the best cocoa available in the house and calling out to the other teenagers who were crammed up in the bedrooms while the family talked downstairs.

"Ron, I'll go help your mum." Hermione must've sensed he needed a few moments to gather himself. Ron just felt himself nodding again as Hermione stood up.

Just as Harry, Ginny and Daphne arrived into the kitchen, Ron wiped at his face with his scarred lower arm and joined his family and friends.

* * *

**A/N: **I wanted to acknowledge that Ron going to an Emotional Healer was inspired by Solstice Muse's work, in particular "Eternal Sunshine of the Scourgified Mind' and her 'These Walls' series, both of which have my favorite Ron — funny and angsty. If any reader knows of any good 'Ron-in-Therapy' works, please do not hesitate to let me know!

Please don't hesitate to check out my one-shot series, "A Second Thought." I have Draco, Pansy, and Hermione already up.

Love to hear from you in a review!


	7. Chapter 6: Flora M Auditor

**A/N**: Hope everyone had a great holiday! Mine was positively swell. Thanks to Tincat for the beta-work.

For clarity's sake, any time I have flashbacks with multiple short sentences from many different, anonymous speakers, I'll center them. When I have bits of dialogue from identified speakers, it'll be aligned to the right side.

In this chapter, Ron tries to understand about Daphne, Daphne learns something new about Harry, and the three of them share a special night (not in _that_ way . . . ;0)

* * *

**Chapter 6**: **Flora M. Auditor**

"So, Ron. Tell me what's on your mind."

They were at it again. For the third time, in three weeks, it was all about him.

In their first session three weeks ago, the not-quite seventeen-year-old had walked into Emotional Healer Flora M. Auditor's office. Ron had sat and listened to her go on and on for the first 10 minutes. There was something about "confidentiality," "licensed Emotional Healer," "feelings," and other girly shit like that.

It had already been such a long day! Ron and his parents had spent some time with a regular Healer — one who specialized in magical head trauma—who had dispensed his own advice regarding the sensory stuff:

(_"Well, it seems the Dr. Ubbly's is working just fine on the actual scars, but maybe it's simply not strong enough for the onslaught of thoughts or severing the senses. We'd need to add in a specific regimen combining the unction with Dr. Northrop's Neural Quick-Calm Balm. We should try the balm for the next four weeks. Should you need more, we'll do another physical scan and, if necessary, supplement Healer Cameron's Sense-Control Salve_. . . ._"_)

Ron and his family had been told that magical injuries, ones involving brains and neurological systems, were among the slowest to treat and recover. The ointments that Ron's two Healers had prescribed allowed gradual recovery that wouldn't shock Ron's physiology. Twice weekly meetings with the Healers for the next month and through the first month of school would not only monitor Ron's progress but would give the Healers more information about what his body needed and didn't need.

So, for the last two weeks, there were daily applications of sour-smelling balms and salves and oils. It was slow going, retraining his sensory systems to _not_ start overloading themselves and creating sensations that didn't exist in the physical world.

Such was the procedure when it came to injuries affecting the brain and neurological systems.

Ron had thought, and certainly continued to think, it was a whole lot of waffle for _his_ neurological system.

(_I mean, I'm no Hermione_ . . .)

Ron had noticed a decrease in the nightmares he experienced. By the third week of treatment, instead of every other night, the nightmares were now coming to him maybe a couple of times a week . . .

But, when they did come they were just as awful as ever. At times, the nightmares he had come to associate with the brains started mixing and mingling with images of his own creation.

Dolohov striking down Hermione. . . . Ron was frozen

Harry screaming. . . . Ron was petrified.

Hermione unconscious. . . . Hermione not breathing. . . . Ron was dead

Neville, Luna, Daphne . . . _Ginny_ . . . bleeding . . . dying . . . already dead.

There were even times when his dreams didn't involve attacks, or blood or death. Rather, they were more simple concerns.

The other night, for example . . .

Ron had dreamt that Hermione was flying with Harry on Buckbeak, while Ron, dressed like Filch, chased after them on a school broom. His family kept chucking household objects at him and saying they loved him. He remembered the last thing he heard Hermione say to him right before he woke up.

"_Ron, there's just no room for you. Stay there and catch the Quaffle. Harry and I have a meeting with Dumbledore!"_

Ron was in a truly foul mood for the rest of the day.

He found himself preoccupied with his dreams, particularly the ones involving Hermione in some way, shape or form.

What if he never got over his touching issues?

What if he couldn't stop browbeating himself about what happened with the Ministry?

What if he couldn't stop feeling like an utter reject, a complete failure, when standing next to either her or Harry?

What if, what if, whatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatif . . .

(_Makes my bloody head hurt!_)

Ron had to wonder whether she would stay with him no matter what. She was _Hermione_ after all — brilliant, beautiful, intense, courageous . . .

She'd make any bloke happy. . . .

Ron had approached his first session with Healer Auditor with nerves, nearly pulling apart the already-weak hem of his robes. The first time he had called her Healer Auditor, she just smiled pleasantly, eyes dancing over her thin, rectangular spectacles, and told him . . .

"_Oh no Ron! It's Flora, please. I think in here we can dispense with the formalities!"_

She looked like she was in her mid-30's, plump, with that same matronly body that his mum had. She wore faded robes with large, tapestry-looking flowers on them. And she smiled an awful lot. Not in an unpleasant way. . . . She seemed a cheerful sort.

And she always wanted him to talk . . .

"_So, Ron. What do you want to talk about?"_

"_Well, can you make me stop having these nightmares?" Healer Auditor shook her head._

"_Ron, I listen to you. You talk to me, and I listen. Time to time, I might have something I can add, but this is your time to talk about anything you want." She gestured with an open palm toward him._

_Ron coughed uncomfortably. "Thing is, I don't really talk about stuff." He moved his head around; his neck and back felt, suddenly, uncomfortably tight. "Hermione might disagree with that, though. She thinks I talk loads," he grinned. "Talk too much, in fact."_

"_Who's Hermione? Your girlfriend?" Ron gave a small smile._

"_Er, well, sorta. We're close, and, well — she's there for me. I'm there for her. It's kinda complicated right now, because of all this stuff," he gestured to his head. And before he knew it, they spent the entire hour talking about Hermione, a bit about Harry, and school_. . . .

That first session seemed okay, but they didn't get to the meat of Ron's issues: his nightmares. The second session, Flora had brought in some Wheezes and chocolate frogs to give to Ron . . .

"_Oh Heavens no!" Flora exclaimed when she saw the horrified look on Ron's face. "I know they're your brothers, but I didn't tell them who I was or mention you." She leaned forward, patting the tip of her nose with her right index finger. "Told them the stuff was for my son! I've got loads more at home. So anyone who crosses me—" she winked at Ron and sat back, "had better watch their backsides." She crossed her arms and Ron couldn't help chuckling at her._

"_Which one's your favorite?" Flora asked him. That got Ron talking about his favorite treats, the twins and, of course, the rest of his family_.. . .

Now Ron sat in the office, thinking about what he wanted to talk about today. Thing was, as much as he wanted to fix what was going on with his brain, every time he started to talk about it, his tongue froze.

He couldn't bring himself to say anything about the violent imagery that assaulted him.

He could barely tell Harry or Hermione about what he kept seeing, his own memories or not.

Flora seemed nice enough; well, she smiled a lot. But this was too . . . new for Ron. He didn't want to talk about this stuff to anyone.

Why the hell should he talk about any of it with a perfect stranger?

"Your parents had mentioned that you have a houseguest. Friend of yours from school?"

Ron gave a loud snort.

(_Oh! If only you knew Flora!_)

"Not a friend, eh?"

"She's a Slytherin." Ron spoke as if the matter was finished.

"And?"

Ron's brow creased. "She's a Slytherin. I'm a Gryffindor. We don't mix well."

Flora raised her eyebrows. "So why is she staying with you?"

Ron shrugged. "Dumbledore said it'd be better if she stayed with us, I s'pose. Mum's sort of in the business of picking up strays . . ." Flora cocked her eyebrow and a small hint of a grin appeared on her face. Ron continued talking. "Well, y'know Harry's story, right? She's unofficially made him a Weasley. And Dumbledore reckoned Daphne needed something like a family too." Ron frowned and sneered. "Daphne puts up a struggle 'bout it, though. Says she doesn't need anyone, or anything, blah, blah, blah. Mum says it's because she didn't have boundaries or something like that, growing up."

"Are her parents not around?"

"Nope. She lost 'em young, like Harry. But not _like_ Harry. Harry's not a greasy, angry — can you call a girl a 'git'? Because she's definitely a git! Don't get me wrong, or anything. Harry can be . . . erm, _Harry_ on overdrive at times. He has a 'saving-people' thing, has anger issues, and can be sullen and moody. It's up to me to pull him out of it."

Flora nodded, considering this.

"Well, Ron. I guess you could look at maybe why Harry's the way he is and why Daphne's the way she is."

Ron just mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "—don't wanna know why," and kicked at his chair.

"Hm. But didn't she fight with you? Wasn't she a part of your defense club?" Ron nodded, still kicking at his chair. Flora continued to talk. "Doesn't sound like she's that bad. Do you get along with her yourself?"

Ron's eyebrows threatened to jump right off his face when Flora voiced this question. He slid down his chair, his arms crossed in front of him.

(_That's probably what Muggles call a 'loaded question'._)

"Well, we didn't at all, at first," Ron said, remembering that DA meeting. As soon as Daphne Greengrass, all short, dark and scowly, had made her appearance, the Hog's Head was in complete uproar. . . .

"_The bloody hell?"_

"_Great Hufflepuff's Arse!—I don't think so!"_

"_Fan-_fucking-_tastic! We've been discovered!"_

"_Spying for Malfoy, eh?"_

Harry had shushed everyone and pulled Daphne outside. Hermione ran over to join them. After a few moments — moments that felt like the longest in Ron's life — they came back inside.

"_Alright. This is Daphne. Er, she's in Slytherin, but you all probably knew that already. Me and Hermione," ("Hermione and I" Hermione corrected him. Harry just glared at her.) "We, um, invited Daphne to the meeting today. I've known her since the start of this term. Hermione's known her since third year. She doesn't like Umbridge either. So that should settle it, right?" Harry scanned the faces of the other potential members._

_Ron was livid. He raised his hand violently in the air._

"_Harry!"_

"_Later, Ron." Harry spoke out of the side of his mouth._

"_Bloody NOT later." Ron stood up and went to speak to Harry directly, out of earshot of everyone else — no need in undermining him before the their meetings started in earnest._

"_Harry, she's in _Slytherin_!" Harry looked thoroughly put out, but did Ron care? _Hell no!

"_Yeah, that point was made, Ron."_

"_This is what they do, y'know? Get you to trust them, then they bite you in the neck with their long, poisonous fangs!" Harry stumbled and bumbled through his'proof' that Daphne could actually be trusted._

"_Hermione_ might've_ vouched for her _. . . _a little _. . . _er—" Harry couldn't stop stuttering through his justification — which pretty much placed everything on Hermione's bushy head._

_It wasn't a convincing argument_. . . . _Hell, Harry couldn't even manage a convincing tone._

"_Hermione vouched for Daphne?" Ron asked severely. Harry nodded._

"_So you're just going to let her be a part of this, no questions asked?"_

"_Ron, maybe we should give her a shot?"_

"_Not sure I can on this, mate." Ron remembered saying, darkly_. . . .

"So, Hermione had told me she'd actually been studying with Daphne, not like all the time or anything, but occasionally. And that Daphne had said she was really affected by Cedric Diggory's death."

"Did she know him?"

Ron shook his head. "No. It's weird, though. She didn't know him, like him, or think much about him. She saw his body, though. And it seemed to shake her up pretty bad." Ron stared at Flora's feet. "She's still affected by it, to be honest."

"Do you have an opinion of her now?"

Ron, still looking at his doctor's feet, shrugged. "Dunno. I mean, we let her come with us — well, it was more like let her come with us or beat me and Harry up. And, girl's tough — tougher than her twitchy, greasy self would seem." Ron's brow creased in contemplation. "She also said she 'approved' of me."

"Really? When did she tell you this?"

"Well, when she came to stay with us. About a week into our summer vacation." Ron frowned. "She had to take three days — _three whole bloody days _— to tell me!" Ron focused on the floor, shoulders shaking as he gave a small snort. "She did say she was wrong about me," he mumbled.

However, he then remembered what happened a little over two weeks ago.

"But she called You-Know-Who a dark lord!" Ron huffed, frustrated beyond all rational belief. "A bloody _dark lord_! If that doesn't mean she's harboring delusions of Death Eater grandeur and that she's soaked up all that nasty Slytherin rot, I don't know what else would."

Perched precariously on the edge of his chair, Ron let loose with his arms, throwing them wide open, pouring every last bit of frustration that he felt for the whole stupid affair out into the room.

Flora simply nodded. Ron's brow creased deeply.

(_Doesn't she get it?_)

"She's the closest I've come to actually being _nice _to a Slytherin. But how can you befriend any of those . . . they don't actually know what being friends means, y'know? All they know is money, who's pureblood and who's not, and the quickest way to get the Dark Mark tattooed right onto their arms. The whole reason someone gets sorted into Slytherin is because they want power, they're ambitious, and they only look out for themselves. That means they'll change sides, for or against you, quicker than a snake can flick its tongue out at a rat."

Flora sat in her chair, chewing on the earpiece of her glasses.

"Do you think there's anything that she can do that might earn your trust, Ron? Or that any Slytherin could do?"

Exhaling and bending his long back so his elbows rested on his knees, Ron looked to his right and to his left in a most dramatic fashion.

He shrugged.

"Dunno. Besides _stop_ being themselves?"

"Could you stop being Ron?"

The question reminded Ron oddly of his dad's speech a few weeks ago.

"No. Of course not. I'll be Ron, forever and ever. For better or worse." He snorted, bent over and looking at his arms as they rested, propped on his knees. He rubbed the nail of his thumb with the pads of his fingers.

"Is it a bad thing to be ambitious, to want power, to put yourself first?" Flora asked him, crossing her thickly-clothed, slightly chubby legs.

"Maybe it's not absolutely, necessarily a _bad _thing, I s'pose. In tiny, miniscule amounts."

"Have you ever wanted something so bad, you'd do anything to get it?"

Ron thought through this for a second. He remembered standing in front of that blasted mirror in his first year — the one that almost sucked Harry in. He had seen himself as Hogwarts' Head Boy, Gryffindor Quidditch Captain. In the mirror that had shown him his deepest desires, Ron had been popular, handsome. . .

Clearly, he wanted all of those honours, all of the glory that came with being the cream of the crop.

And what about his feud with Harry in fourth year? He had been jealous of Harry's entry as a champion. But, that wasn't him going after something actively. That was just him, Ron, being a jealous git. Because, once again, Harry got the attention and Ron was shunted aside. Hell, he even thought Harry had done it on purpose, and it made Ron feel like utter shit. He remembered his attitude -- loud, brash and cocky -- when he was picked to be Harry's thing he'd miss the most during the second Triwizard Tournament task. It was probably the closest he'd ever come to showing Slytherin-type behavior, the way he sought to grab the spotlight, to show everyone he mattered . . .

(_Wait! Could my friendship with Harry be my chance to grab the spotlight?_)

It happened every once in a while, when people finally remembered who he was and talked about him in the hallways, or gave him appraising looks as he walked down the Hogwarts corridors with Harry and Hermione. And he'd swallowed it up. He liked — really, truly _liked _— being the 'impressive one', for a change.

And what about trying out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team? He'd worked hard for that, and didn't quit even when he was rubbish. He should have given the spot up to someone better, more talented . . .

But he practiced and practiced, and . . . wait, didn't he bloody win the damn cup for Gryffindor?

And to do that, he had needed ambition, drive, a bit of cunning too? He had _wanted_ to be Gryffindor's Keeper, to be good at it, and to enjoy the bragging rights that came with that. He had _liked_ the acknowledgement when he had received his prefect's badge partly because, for just one second — _only_ _one_ — Ron reveled in the fact that he had finally beaten Harry at something.

Maybe he was just the _tiniest_ _bit_ Slytherin himself. And if he possessed some of the qualities of someone sorted into Slytherin, maybe a Slytherin such as Daphne possessed some of the traits that characterize a Gryffindor, or any of the other houses.

Maybe — just _maybe_ — not all Slytherins were in training to follow You-Know-Who. Maybe some of them were like Daphne. Maybe they would choose to fight with them, if or when the time came.

_Maybe _. . . Hermione had been right, after all.

* * *

"Potter! Weasley! Shut it down!"

Daphne yelled toward the heavens, shielding her eyes toward the sun. Harry and Ginny had been at this for hours. As soon as they'd got up, with Ron spending the day who knew where, the two Gryffindors had bolted outdoors, Harry on his Firebolt, Ginny on her brother's Cleansweep, although Daphne highly doubted Ginny had asked Ron for permission.

It was already lunch. Daphne had been holed up with Hermione and Mrs. Weasley, sweating and slaving away while those two were gallivanting around playing some stupid game Daphne never had any interest in . . .

(_That little Weasley slag must be tripping all over herself trying to get Potter's attention!_)

Daphne snorted.

"Hey, DAFFY!" Harry yelled, giggling as Ginny swooped over to him. She was trying to wrestle with what Daphne suspected was a piece of metal charmed to flitter around like the snitch.

"Can it with the nickname, Potter! You don't want to see me angry!"

"Oh, because you're a right ray of sunshine, G'?" Ginny smirked as she touched down from her broom. The girl had decided to throw in her two cents, much to Daphne's chagrin.

Ginny. The Weasel bird. Runt. Rabbit. Mouse. Bunny . . .

(_Get it? Weasel, mouse, rabbit, bunny _. . . )

Daphne ran through a series of seemingly appropriate descriptions for the girl.

(_Don't think Weasley would appreciate it if I ran around calling his sister a slag! Ooh! Runt _. . . _Piglet!_)

Smiling sneakily to herself, Daphne led Piglet and Potter to join the rest of them for lunch.

"So," the youngest Weasley said, turning toward Daphne, addressing her, "not a fan of Quidditch, eh?"

'Only when Slytherin kicks everyones' behinds. Other than that, I couldn't be less bothered by it." Daphne dismissively waved her hand.

"Aw, 'G. That's a shame. Quidditch is fun!"

"Perhaps if you're a broom-riding thrill seeker. Personally, I prefer it if things stay _attached _to the ground."

"Like walking. Sitting on the couch, eh?" Harry jogged to walk in-step with Daphne. "More your speed, huh Daf'?"

Glaring at him, which belied her smug glee at Harry's full attention upon her, Daphne could only respond, "I find mental pursuits, done in the quiet of one's home, to be much more fulfilling. Plus," Daphne said with a note of decisiveness "less risk of breaking one's arse."

Harry shook his head.

" Nothing's better than flying! One of the first things I learned as a wizard. When you're up there," Harry pointed at the sky, a look of pure contentment crossing his face, "it's just you. Nothing else. No dark wizards, no evil Voldemort. No death. Just you." He turned back to Daphne, eyes shining a brilliant green. "Greatest feeling in the world. I'll take you up one day. The Firebolt rides like a dream." Harry nudged her with his arm, and bolted toward the door. Daphne watched him run into the house.

"I'm really surprised."

Daphne turned toward a wistful-sounding Piglet. (_Er _. . . _Ginny._) "Why?"

Ginny had a small smile on her face. "Well, last summer, he was just, well, so pissed off. With good reason, mind," Ginny added after a moment.

"He'd just witnessed Cedric being murdered and Voldemort coming back to life! Who wouldn't be angry?" Daphne spoke indignantly on Harry's behalf. Ginny shook her head.

"I was scared, to be quite honest, about Harry coming here. After Sirius, well, I expected him to be really far gone. Now," Ginny gestured toward her home, "he's doing much better than I expected. He's dealing well with Sirius' death."

"Can I ask something?" Daphne asked a bit aggressively. She brought her hands to her hips in hard fists. "Why in the world is everyone so up and sad about this Black fellow? He was a serial killer, wasn't he?"

Daphne watched Ginny rub her forehead and shift her eyes downward. "Well, Sirius was actually innocent."

Daphne could only stare at her, shock displayed clearly on her face.

"He was . . . innocent? Wait," Daphne walked around Ginny as she thought through things she remembered from last year at the Department of Mysteries.

"Were Potter and Black related?"

Ginny shook her head. "No, but Sirius was Harry's godfather. He and Lupin were the only two friends of Harry's dad that were still alive. Now, it's just Lupin. I think Harry had been planning to live with Sirius once he could get out of the Dursley's house."

Daphne nodded. "Black and Potter were close, weren't they?" Ginny gave her a lopsided grin.

"Yeah. Mum reckoned Sirius saw a lot of James in Harry. Treated him like his father. On more than one occasion, Sirius wanted Harry to do something reckless." Ginny chuckled. "Mum nearly had kittens over Sirius' attitude towards Harry."

"What did you think about him?"

"I liked Sirius. He could be a riot at times." Ginny's face fell. "But there were times he seemed so, so—"

"Er, serious?"

Ginny chortled and rolled her eyes. She snapped her fingers and smiled at Daphne. "Yup! That's it. Harry loved him, though. I'm just glad he's doing well."

"You like Potter, don't you?" Daphne was suddenly seized by an encompassing need to know, right at that moment, where Ginny stood with Potter.

Ginny looked completely taken aback. "I've got a boyfriend."

"Means nothing." Daphne waved her hand glibly at Ginny. (_Piglet, Greengrass!_)

"Oh, right — isn't it, er, Delbert, or . . . Doug, or Dicky or something."

Piglet's nose crinkled up in noticeable repugnance at the names Daphne threw out.

"Er, it's actually Dean."

"Like Dean, then?"

Piglet nodded vigorously. "Oh, yeah! Dean's wonderful. Brilliant artist., too. Dead funny." She smiled broadly.

(_She seems happy._)

(_Too_ _happy._)

Daphne stared at the back of Piglet-Ginny's head as she skipped towards the door. She could read between the girl's overly enthusiastic reaction to her brilliantly artistic, wonderful, hilarious _Dean_. Daphne's eyes narrowed into dark, little daggers.

(_That's the same damn tone I use when telling people, "Oh, yeah! Everything's going great. No problems. More tea?" Bloody lying bint!_)

Daphne's internal musings were broken as she stepped through the door into the loud kitchen. Everyone, including Ron, who had just came back from…wherever it was he got to these days, crowded into the tiny space, making sandwiches while laughing all the while.

* * *

"Whoa! Easy on the milk . . . that's fine." Ron held his hand up, stopping Daphne from continuing to pour the creamy, warm, white liquid into his bowl. She complied.

This was the fourth — no, wait, fifth . . . or maybe the sixth (_o__h_! _I've lost count!_) — non-consecutive night since Daphne told Ron about Cedric. Daphne found she had some company in her insomnia. Ron would come traipsing down the stairs at about midnight. He never told her why he couldn't sleep; he just sat down at the table, behind a bowl filled with day-old white bread. Daphne would automatically pour the warm milk on top of the bread, and they would sit, eating and tossing quips or teasing each other and dumping the occasional spoonful of sugar to sweeten their comforting meal.

This was the second night in a row that Ron had met her downstairs. He'd been acting rather, well . . . _odd_, that day towards her. Ron kept glancing shiftily at her, like he was waiting for her do something, anything, at that moment.

He also wasn't actively taking the piss out of her, as was his normal method of operating. He spoke to her, a bit cautiously, if anything.

Eating his warm bread and milk, Ron kept looking up at her, squirming in his seat. Tired of his fidgety behavior, Daphne sighed.

"Something on your mind, Weasley? You've been acting like I put a goldfish down your pants."

Ron put down his spoon.

"Have you ever been tempted to join, er, _them_? Y'know, before Cedric died?"

"I thought we were past this, Weasley." She was already getting angry, and she didn't say very nice things to people when she got angry. "I apologized to you, and everyone here, about that!"

"No, wait." Ron held up his hands. "It's, well, kinda more than that. I honestly want to know. Were you tempted to join them over the last few years?"

"Well, it never really became an issue until after Cedric's death, did it? That's when Voldemort came back—"

"Okay, sure. But do you think," Ron sat forward, finger tapping the table with each word, "if you didn't know what you know now: Cedric, the DA, the Ministry. What would you have done?"

"How can I answer that? If I hadn't actually seen his body?"

"Yeah?"

Daphne pondered his question. It was valid. If she hadn't been sitting where she had been during the final task, any higher up, she wouldn't have been one of the first few onto to ground level.

And then what? Would she have been less likely to join up with Potter and the DA? Much less the fight at the Ministry.

Daphne cleared her throat.

"I don't know if I can answer that without you hating me." She spoke frankly to him, wanting to meet his eyes but unable to do so. She sensed him lean back in him chair.

She chanced a quick glimpse up at Ron. He was rubbing his face with his right hand.

It was a slightly positive sign that he wasn't leaping away from the table.

"What about actually joining the Death Eaters?" he asked. "Would you have done that now, if they asked you? Had you never did any of the things you did last year?"

Daphne sat still. This was another realm of consideration altogether. It was a huge leap from Swiss-like neutral territory to getting the Dark Mark. She'd like to think of herself as still willing to put it all on the line for Potter and his gang . . . but had one thing gone differently, she wasn't sure she'd be here at this table, sharing a bowl of bread and milk with Weasley.

"Although I would love to tell you I would've rejected them outright, kicked them all in the bollocks, and joined forces with you lot automatically, realistically, I think, that perhaps, I might have not done anything."

Ron nodded, expressing neither satisfaction nor displeasure at her comment. Daphne spoke again. "There seems to be one of two types of Slytherins, Ron. One type adheres to the 'not me' policy. They stick their head in the sand, ostrich-like, and wait stuff out. See who'll win out in the end. To Slytherin House's credit, they seem to make up most of the students in the house." Daphne folded her fingers together in front of her; the pads of the fingers on her left hand worried and smoothed the nails on her right.

"The second type picks a side, and you can bet it's _not_ to fight with you." She looked at him, head lowered, eyes peeking up at Ron's face. He nodded, staring around her head at some nameless thing. "It's very extreme, and it'd been building all throughout last year with Umbridge in control. Many Slytherins followed her because she wasn't Dumbledore. She'd seemed to be the one with the power of the Ministry behind her and, therefore, she would've been the one with the most control over the Headmaster and matters at Hogwarts. Of course, they gravitated to that." Daphne gave a great sarcastic grunt.

"Why'd you hate her so much?"

"She reminded me of a caseworker that I had had. She looked like a cow, smelled like a cat, and dressed like hound vomit." Ron laughed, as did Daphne. "So her little attitude with us didn't quite have the same hypnotic effect on me as it did my housemates. And I really couldn't abide by her 'No Defensive Practice' decree."

"She was a stupid cow."

"The worst!" They continued chuckling together softly.

Daphne spoke again. "Potter intrigued me, y'know? All the way back into our first year. I couldn't help hearing things about him while I was waiting on the platform, while we were on the train, while we were waiting to be sorted. He was Harry _bloody_ Potter, The Chosen One . . . The Boy-Who-Lived . . . But he looked, well, runty."

Ron chortled.

"Hey! That's my mate there!"

"What? It's true." Daphne sat up, fingers tented on her chest. "I don't make things up. Harry was this twiggy little thing," she squiggled her pinky finger. "But I rather liked that about him. He looked normal. All that notoriety and fame didn't seem to touch him. And I kept hearing from that point on that Potter was desperate for fame and so on. But I just couldn't see it. He seemed, well, decent."

Daphne sat back and folded her arms. "Even if has questionable taste in friends . . ." and smirked at Ron's gaping mouth.

She rather fancied he looked like a fish.

"Wait, are you actually taking the piss?"

"Just might be, Weasley. I just might be."

"Wha'salldisden . . ." This newest voice caused both Daphne and Ron to jump. They watched as Harry stretched and yawned while speaking nearly unintelligibly.

"Daphne was explaining to me what a bad Slytherin is and what a neutral Slytherin is," Ron stopped and gestured toward her. "If she hadn't fought with us last year, she reckons she would probably _not_ be a bad one."

"Bad one meaning—"

"I wouldn't be getting any, er, _tattoos_, any time soon." Daphne responded, somewhat subdued.

"Ah! Gotcha." Harry yawned again. "So, whachoo eatin' this late?"

Ron got up to put his now empty bowl in the sink. "Daf' concoction—"

"Shut it, Weasley!" But Daphne noted her voice had a teasing, slightly jovial, quality to it.

"White bread, warm milk, sugar apparently. S'posed to help you sleep."

"Does it work?"

"Well, _I'm _going to bed, so . . ." Ron walked toward the stairs. He shrugged. "I guess it does. See you two in the morning." The redhead gave a great yawn, scratched his behind, and jogged up the stairs.

Daphne thought he would wake the entire house. Ron was not known for being light-footed.

Harry brought a bowl full of bread and milk to the table, taking Ron's seat. "I'll give this stuff a shot then. It couldn't hurt, could it? You didn't spike it with anything?"

"Only a touch of Beautifying Potion. You are a bit speccy."

"Hey!" Harry ruffled his own hair. "Nothing's wrong with my look. I'm . . ."

"Geeky? Twig-like? Rather wee?"

Harry snorted and chuckled. "Maybe we _are_ rubbing off on you, after all Daphne."

"Oi! No more of that talk. That just sounds obscene."

Harry just smiled and shook his head and dug into his bowl of bread and warm milk.

"This is, um . . . different."

"You don't have to eat it if you don't want to, Potter."

"No, I mean, where did you learn this?"

Daphne tapped her fingers on the counter. "Miss Proctor — Elvira — would make this for us. When we had problems sleeping. I guess it's comfort food."

"Doesn't sound like Miss Proctor was all that bad. Was it nice there, then?" Harry asked, as he swallowed a mouthful of bread.

"Oh, she _hates_ me, Elvira does." Daphne mumbled, more to the chipped blue porcelain bowl that contained her late-night snack. "She makes me do things." Her nose crumpled up her face, and she drew her lip up to reveal sneering teeth.

"What things?'

"Chores, for one!" Daphne's hands flew up, practically knocking her spoon out of her bowl. "Scrub floors, toilets. When I'm actually back for the holidays, she said I had to be home by six on weeknights and nine on weekends. And she always makes little comments about my schoolbooks, my wand, my cloaks. And she forces me to go to the store with her. _And_ she makes me work around the house as well like a bloody house elf — with no pay! I mean, really!" Daphne crossed her arms and pouted. Harry, to his credit, had been able to stifle his growing laughter, until Daphne pushed out her lips.

Then he just lost it.

"Seriously, Daphne? I lived in a broom cupboard under the stairs for eleven blasted years!" Harry clutched at his sides. "Did she ever tell you you're worthless? Call your mum or dad 'abominations'?" He made quotation signs with his fingers. "I actually think I win this round."

Daphne did not let up on her glare. She let Harry laugh it all off.

When he finally gained control of himself, with great deep breaths, Harry asked Daphne, "What's going on with you and Ron?"

She dropped her spoon.

"_Seriously_, Potter? _Really_?" The boy is thicker than she thought. "Okay, Potter. One, the red hair . . . it's just _eww_! Two," she held up fingers to match, "simply put, 'giraffe that mated with sloth' is not my type. Three, he and I loathe each other."

"Is that why he's been coming down here at night? To sit around with someone he loathes?"

"He's with Granger—"

"I'm definitely not saying he likes you like that." Harry held his hands up. "But, I don't think he loathes you, Daphne. Not like, well . . ."

"You mean like he used to loathe me, right?"

"Er," Harry shrugged and nodded. "Ron's pretty set about things—"

"No, _really_? He always struck me as one of the more flexible, less judgy blokes."

"Ron's laid back, Daphne. About everyday things. About problems and stuff like that. Ask Ron to do his homework, and he'll pull out his chess set and tell you he's got plenty of time, no worries, no stress. Believe me, he does it all the time with Hermione."

Daphne rather believed it.

"When it comes to what he believes, what he feels, Ron can be—"

"Difficult? Pig-headed? Obstinate?"

"Um, well . . ."

"Easier to tell Voldemort you two should get together and talk out your differences?"

"I said difficult, not impossible." Harry smiled — truly, genuinely smiled — at Daphne. "All I'm saying is that I sort of see some changes between you and Ron. Maybe for the better . . ."

"Well, what about you Pot-um, I mean, Harry? Do you think differently of me?"

Harry scratched his chin and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Well, compared to our first meeting—"

"You kept yelling the whole bloody time!"

"I was angry then—"

"Still, man. For a twitchy little thing, you scared the shit out of me." Harry just smirked.

"Well, I was going through a rough patch." Daphne looked at him, contemplating what to say while she nodded.

"I understand." Daphne swallowed and looked at the table. "It's one day at a time with us, isn't it?" She looked back up at Harry, whose lopsided grin flitted across his face faster than leprechaun gold.

"One day at a time. That works on a lot of levels with us, Daphne." Harry looked away, smiling and nodding. "A lot of levels."


	8. Chapter 7: Ratface

**A/N: **The next couple of chapters are going up here unbeta'd for now, so please let me know about any glaring grammatical or characterization errors.

This chapter contains mild off-color humor regarding sexuality. I own nothing. I'm just playing around with these characters. They belong to JKR and she's fab!

**

* * *

Chapter 7: Ratface**

As fun and wonderful as the summer had been, Daphne could feel it drawing to a close. There was no real task or duty for her, save for her summer assignments.

Oh, and that pesky job Dumbledore had assigned her . . .

(_Bah!_)

Their sixth year was approaching and too quickly for Daphne, as she found herself getting more and more nervous about seeing the other Slytherin students.

Not that she would admit that to any of _them_.

"Great Merlin's bollocks!" Daphne cried out in desperation. "You people are actually making me _miss_ seeing Malfoy." She rubbed her face and sighed in exasperation. "Are all Gryffindors this bloody lame?"

"Oh, D'," Ron sighed lazily, "did anyone ever tell you you have the loveliest disposition?" Daphne swatted at him; Ron leaned back, her hand just missing him. "We're gonna miss that when we get back to Hogwarts."

They were sitting in the shade, under a great oak tree right at the edge of the pond on the Burrow grounds. Ron and Hermione were particularly _handsy_ with each other today; of course, it was mostly because Ron had insisted on pestering her while she read through her Arithmancy text (_bloody hell, doesn't the rest of class stand a chance?_) instead of paying attention to him and the rest of the group. Ron had been poking Hermione and her book with a long stick from the oak tree that shaded them.

"'Miii-oh-neeee. C'mon 'Mione . . ." Nothing. A pause . . .

Poke. Poke. Poke.

"'Mione'mione'mione'mione'mione'mione'mione . . ." Nothing.

A breath . . .

Poke. Poke.

"'Mione'mione'mione'mione'mione'. . ."

"_Shut_. _Up_. Ron! For the love of Merlin. . . !"

"C'mon . . . you're _outside_ . . . with me, O' Brainy Wonder of the Wizarding World. You should be basking in the glow of my very presence." Ron whinged. Harry and Ginny snickered.

Daphne looked around for place to vomit.

"And you should know that Ginny's been teaching me _all_ of her best hexes."

"All of them?" Ron's eyebrows drew together. Daphne could tell he was genuinely scared.

"_'Mione_ can make it _impossible_ for you to ride your broom for a week," Ginny said as she leaned in him.

After that, Ron engaged Harry and Ginny in a spirited discussion of all things Quidditch.

Daphne, for her part, was perfectly content with reading through her Ancient Runes text. Actually, skimming it, more like. She'd found that she was far more interested in the blades of grass waving in the breeze than she was in the complex diagrams, numerals and extensive vocabulary.

(_In_ _Latin . . . __honestly!_)

She finally noticed her fingers pushing down a chunk of the page she was supposed to be reviewing, causing a thick crease in the paper. It was a nervous habit of hers that developed from grammar school on.

(_Hermione would kill me if she saw me defiling this book._)

(_If she'd kill you, you'd have an excuse not to see those bloodthirsty idiots in your house._)

Snappy and more sour than usual, Daphne's nerves were threatening to overtake her. She knew that Ratface (_err . . . Malfoy_) would be going on a warpath in Slytherin — and would probably focus his energies on ridding Hogwarts of the trio. Who knew what he thought about her after Daphne contributed directly with the incident that got his father chucked into Azkaban.

Exhaling and shutting her eyes, Daphne mentally ticked off the reasons Malfoy would be particularly unpleasant during school this year:

One — he would lay blame on what happened with his sycophantic father on Harry. Since Harry was apparently the _worst_ thing to ever happen in the history of _anything_.

Two — Malfoy would be a little bitch about everything trio-related . . . he always was.

Three — Malfoy would make her life extremely difficult and possibly paint her as a Mudblood sympathizer . . . maybe give her a cute nickname like "Gryffin-whore".

And he'd make sure the other Slytherins would give her hell as well. They would just love to take up _that _challenge.

Daphne contemplated this for a moment. Slytherin hadn't been _completely_ awful to her. There had been her Sorting ceremony. . . .

* * *

She remembered standing, confused and overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of her new school. 

Hogwarts.

She kept saying it over and over again.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

It sounded . . . whimsical . . . innocent.

When her whole life had revolved around water-stained foam ceilings, fluorescent lights, and cream-colored cardboard folders and legal pads, this new world of ghosts, floating candles, and boarding schools in ancient castles seemed like something out of a dream.

Her eyes sought out the old man that had come to Miss Proctor's home just a few weeks ago, telling her she was a witch. His blue eyes — totally mesmerizing then, completely hypnotic now — were shifting between her and somewhere to her right. Daphne rather thought the old man winked at her. A tiny wink, but a wink nonetheless.

Daphne stood, waiting until an old Scottish witch, hair pulled up in a tight bun, spectacles perched on her nose, spoke her name in a thick brogue. Daphne moved forward, the rough fabric of her robe itching her arms. Stepping up toward this intimidating old woman, face carved with a thousand lines, Daphne sat on the wooden stool. All eyes, young and old, scared and excited, were watching her, waiting . . .

She listened as the Sorting Hat listed off her more endearing personality traits:

" _Ah -- you've got a desire to prove yourself."_

"_And you like being on your own, proving your independence . . ."_

"_Cunning . . . relentless . . . ever resourceful . . . _SLYTHERIN!"

Jumping off the stool, Daphne had chanced a quick glimpse back toward the older wizard. She saw him sitting with his eyes closed and mouth in a straight, grim-looking line. Confused, she walked toward her new house, toward the others students with whom she'd be spending the next seven years. She noticed that the other houses didn't applaud for her like they did when the hat shouted _"Hufflepuff__",_ or "_Ravenclaw_", or "_Gryffindor_"

Their eyes were suspicious.

Their stares weren't welcoming.

Their "smiles" were dry, cynical smirks.

And those were the ones who were actually paying attention to her.

She continued to walk steadily toward the Slytherin table, finding an empty seat. Only the other Slytherins applauded, of course — quite regally and very formally.

Formalities weren't something introduced to Daphne by Miss Proctor.

When she had finally sat down at her table, she started silently nitpicking the other students around her. One boy had a pointy face, blonde hair, and the finest robes made of the best fabric that Daphne had ever seen. Her own second-hand faded black robes paled in comparison. He sat a few feet from her.

Surrounding him, all fleshy and open-mouthed, were two large trolls the others called "Crabbe" and "Goyle". They called Mr. Pointy-face "Malfoy". Not long after she had made herself comfortable, Daphne heard this Malfoy's drawling accent. It was a sound she had come to associate with the upper class:

"Father feels that this school's an absolute disgrace. . . ."

"—Had his way, only pure-bloods . . . No little Mudbloods, under any circumstances!"

"Stupid old headmaster and his half-beast friends . . . tainting our precious blood--"

"_Gryffindor!_"

Daphne had looked up toward the commotion and saw the boy from Platform 9 ¾ -- the first young wizard she had noticed that morning. Black hair, green eyes, glasses and too-large, ratty-looking clothes.

She replayed the thoughts she had at the train station as he walked, dazed and confused, over to the Gryffindor table.

(_Just like me_. _He looks just like me . . ._)

(_Didn't the old wizard tell him about the money for students that had none?_)

Now, in the Great Hall, Daphne saw his little lightening bolt scar peeking through the fringe of his jet black hair. Oh . . . t_hat's_ Potter . . . _Harry Potter_! She remembered his name; it was one of the more popular topics on the train that day. The cheers were positively deafening for him, this unassuming little boy, barely as tall as she was.

He looked so scared.

(_So skinny . . . __so quiet for someone so famous . . ._)

"_Greengrass_!"

Daphne looked up. She looked at the expectant faces around her. Impatient eyes. Arrogant noses. Nostrils flaring with irritated breaths.

"What?"

"Who's your family?"

"Pardon me?"

Draco Malfoy's eyes narrowed with frustrated suspicion. "Who the _hell_ are the Greengrasses? We've never had any over to the Manor."

Daphne wanted to smash her fork into his eye.

"Who the hell are the Malfoys? I've never seen any of you lot over at the Proctors." She could've cursed the rough edges of her accent and vocabulary; surely it would give her away as one of the "common people."

It took all of her efforts to maintain a steely countenance to fool this slight of a boy.

"The _Proctors_? There's no pure-blood family registered under that name."

"Well, we do tend toward a quiet life. No parties or anything. Mostly quiet reflection." She spoke in a cold tone, mimicking the haughtiness the rest of the Slytherins seemed to possess.

Daphne hoped Malfoy's questions ended right there. But, she made the mistake of pushing a tuft of her black hair behind her ears; the frayed, patchy sleeves of her robes became visible to the blond git.

Malfoy walked over to her, grabbing her sleeves in a great clump and balling them into his fist. Daphne cringed, knowing Malfoy, with his pretty robes and fine fabric, would know 'poor' just by touching it.

"What in the world, Greengrass? This feels like burlap! Look at how _frayed_ it is." Malfoy leaned over, making a great show of 'sniffing' around Daphne. "Smells as old as Slytherin himself!" She heard a tremendous cackling from further down; a pale-skinned brunette, her mouth wide open, laughed hysterically.

Her hair looked like a blind man had fun with a scythe.

Daphne jerked her arm away from him. She stood up, noting with satisfaction that she was an inch or two taller than him.

"You _do_ _not_ _get_," she steeled her brown eyes, narrowed into two tiny daggers, "the privilege of touching me without my say so!" She turned back and sat down to attend to her food. Daphne silently ordered her heart to stop its painfully fast tattoo against her ribcage.

For the rest of the year, Malfoy used every insult about money that he could think of, going so far as to throwing his Knuts at her in the common room while she studied — "getting a start on your mortgage, Greengrass!" or "here's some free money for you, and you don't even have to beg!" and so on. She never cried nor yelled at him. She ignored the stupid, smarmy git. And eventually, he lost interest in taunting her all the time. In fact, most of Slytherin left her alone when they realized they weren't going to get a reaction from her.

The funniest part was, even if she didn't get along with Malfoy or Parkinson or their little gang, and she really had no close friends, Slytherin itself was so . . . normal. Even during second year, when everyone assumed Harry was the heir of Salazar Slytherin and _Harry_ was the one who let loose a huge monster to attack Muggle-borns, Slytherin functioned like a normal house. There were no covert meetings to plot the usurpation of the wizarding world. There were no secret Death-Eater recruitment drives. There were no tutorials about how to throw the perfect Unforgivable Curse.

Most of the talk centered around Quidditch, classes, and the latest Hogwarts gossip and non-Hogwarts gossip. And there was always some sort of music playing. If it wasn't The Weird Sisters, it was some other punky wizard band like The Bloodsuckers or Wandwerk. Sometimes, in the early morning of the weekends, Daphne could go downstairs and hear the dulcet tones of lighter fare, such as Wanda Chantalock's latest popular number (music of that nature tended to make Daphne seek out her bed straightaway, as coma-inducing as it was).

Of course there was the occasional debate about pure-blood superiority versus all other degrees of magical blood purity, but it was far less frequent than the plotting of dirty tricks Slytherin's Quidditch team could pull on Gryffindor year after year.

Daphne enjoyed a small flit of popularity around the beginning of second year when her very good grades in Potions and Transfiguration became common knowledge among the other Slytherins. The other dunderheads in her house asked for her help in those classes or to join their study groups. It wasn't a particularly thrilling social life at the time, but, she admitted to herself, it made her existence in Slytherin . . . bearable? Enjoyable compared to staring down a Basilisk?

Daphne had been surprised when she found herself doing well in her classes, even actually exceeding expectations in a couple. She never doubted she had smarts. She seemed to do well enough in her Muggle grammar school. It never came easy for her — but school seemed to be the one thing she worked hard at.

Friendships? (_Nope_.)

Chores? (_Are you kidding_?)

Boyfriends? (_Well, I don't know if anyone'd consider my little trysts with Zabini or Nott "romantic" by any stretch of the imagination . . ._)

School seemed to provide her with an actual future. Doing well at Hogwarts meant she would be able to get a job and take care of herself. Then, Daphne would no longer have to rely on meager Ministry-approved handouts and budgeting _and_ piecemealing a mere pittance for everything — for clothes, books, and school supplies and so on.

She could also get out of the business of finding rather _creative_ ways of making a quick Galleon.

Insofar as romance had entered her life, it really hadn't. Daphne found benefits in sharing time with a couple of members of the opposite sex. It was never anything serious, of course. Just a bit of fun in broom closets or empty classrooms or in their common room after everyone else went to sleep . . . helped to relieve her stress.

Even though he was no Harry, Daphne did quite enjoy hearing Blaise Zabini call out her name. Even if he said he was "slumming it" whenever they would rendezvous.

Daphne also quite enjoyed shocking Zabini every once in a while with her teeth when he kept that nonsense up . . .

And of course, there was Harry Potter. He was _bloody everywhere_! It didn't matter if it was in the Great Hall, on the Quidditch pitch . . . hell, even in the Slytherin common room. The only thing more annoying than the omnipotence of Harry Potter was Malfoy's apparent hard-on _about_ Harry Potter.

"_Stupid Potter!_"

"_Saint Potter . . ._"

"_Scarhead . . . The Weasel . . . The Mudblood . . ._"

She reckoned that the only person who thought about Harry Potter more than she did was Draco Malfoy.

(_Shame he didn't even recognize his own latent homosexuality_.)

Then, in fourth year . . .

* * *

"BY GODRIC'S LEFT NUTSACK, DAPHNE GREENGRASS, WILL YOU BLOODY LOOK UP?" 

Practically jumping into the tree they were all sitting under, Daphne realized she'd been completely lost in the memories of her past in Slytherin House. Her eyes shot upward as she noticed four Gryffindors, smiling big and waving their arms frantically at her.

"We've been saying your name for two weeks now!" Ron said, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. "We're going to go grab our brooms and fly for a bit--"

"Ron? Is that the best idea? You know, given—" Hermione started.

"I'm fine." Ron said, his eyes staring intensely at the girl. Hermione looked very much like she had something she wanted to say, until Harry interrupted.

"Hermione, he hasn't been on a broom _all summer long_! C'mon. He'll be fine. We won't fly too high," Harry spoke with a slight smirk. "We won't risk that pretty little mug of his getting _too _mussed up for you."

Hermione blushed furiously.

"H-Harry, you know perfectly well . . . it's not that at _all_ . . ." the bushy-haired Gryffindor stammered.

"_Hermione_," Harry said, smiling but with eyes directed sharply at her. "It'll be okay."

Daphne couldn't help feel as if she'd just lost the plot.

(_Why the _hell_ is everyone acting like Weasley could snuff it if climbed on his fucking DirtRag 1900 or whatever it is he owns?_)

Ginny brushed off the remaining dirt and grass that had clung stubbornly to her legs. "C'mon, Hermione. You can read to your heart's content _and _watch Ron stumble around in the air." She pulled at Hermione's arm, before the girl could even respond to the question.

Daphne watched as Harry nodded and winked at a very relieved-looking, slightly exasperated Ron. Picking up her books, thoughts still weighing heavily on ruminations of her Slytherin predicament, Daphne followed the other Gryffindors to the open field and watched as Ron joyfully flew his broom in huge swirling circles in the warm, mid-afternoon sun.

* * *

The trio, plus Daphne and Ginny Weasley, made their way to Diagon Alley (when Mr. Weasley had some free time to escort them personally). 

Harry had been _ecstatic_ when Hagrid turned out to be his 'guard'. "_Harry_! It's good ter see yeh! Ron! Hermione! Summer treatin' yeh well, now, eh?" Harry, Ron and Hermione responded quite enthusiastically to the Gamekeeper's greeting. Daphne, Harry noticed, scoffed and kept her distance from the half-giant, merely giving Hagrid a small wave, which Hagrid acknowledged, but far more stiffly than was normal for their jovial friend.

They made their way to the Fred and George's joke shop — lit up by the brilliant "U-No-Poo" sign that gave a wonderful, humorous warmth to the destitute appearance of Diagon Alley these days.

Harry marveled at the spectacle.

(_At least_ something _good came out of the Triwizard Tournament!_)

Walking around, Harry saw Ron tossing Hermione some Daydream Charms.

"It'll come in handy in Potions," his redheaded friend smirked at her.

_"Ron!"_ Hermione exclaimed, completely scandalized. "I. Would. Never . . ." she said breathlessly. She glanced down at the box, reading the description of the spell. "Oh? Well, that's actually quite clever magic."

Ginny was cooing over the Pygmy Puffs.

"You are so _pwecious_. Yes, yes, yes . . ." she said in the sweetest little voice that made Harry's heart give a great thump.

Just to Ginny's left, he saw Fred and George leaning against some shelves, negotiating with a sullen Daphne.

"Okay, Greengrass," Fred adopted a shrewd expression. "Since you picked such a _lovely_ target to test our very first transsexual treats—"

"And since Ronnie's not managed to kill you — oh, hold on," George said. He held out his hand to Fred, who reached into his pocket and thrust a handful of Galleons into George's hand.

"What's all that?" Daphne asked.

"Well, George here seemed to have a little faith that you and our dear, ickle brother would kiss and make up and be the _bestest_ _wittle_ friends."

"He, on the other hand," said George, nodding toward his brother, "had no faith."

"So it's 30 Galleons to the winner—"

"And a pint for the loser at the Cauldron later!" George said patting a rather put-out looking Fred on the back.

"Can we get back to business?" Daphne said, rubbing her fingernails on her sweater and looking at them in bored annoyance.

"See? That's the problem with you Slytherins—" Fred chirped in.

"All fun and games—"

"You never take anything seriously."

"Really," George said, arms folded and shaking his head. "No work, and all play."

Daphne just rolled her eyes.

"You'll give me twenty-five percent off on these products," she said, pointing to the shelf on which she had placed her selections, "with an extra 5 Galleons off my next purchase for trying out your 'experimental' line?"

"Fifteen percent, Greengrass—" Fred offered.

"We'll throw in two more Galleons off your next purchase, for a total of seven . . ." piped in George.

"And we'll give you your choice of Wheezes for free should you decide to use the experimental products on any of your housemates."

Daphne paused, hand rubbing her chin. Harry could practically hear the wheels spinning in her head.

"Twenty percent," she said after a moment. "Take 7 Galleons off my next purchase, give me the free Wheezes on my next visit, and I promise," Daphne held her hand up in front of the twins as if she was taking an oath, "that I'll use the new Wheezes on _worthy _targets _only_."

She showed them her other hand. There were no crossed fingers there.

The twins looked at each other, unsmiling, eyebrows wriggling.

They turned to Daphne.

"Deal, Greengrass!" They spoke in unison with huge smiles on their faces. Daphne shook them both on it, gathered her selections up and made her way to the register.

"Ah, and who is this?" Fred turned around to Harry.

George looked Harry over with a creased brow in mock concentration.

"It looks like the git Ronniekins calls his best mate!"

"And smells like him too!"

"By George!" Fred exclaimed, smacking Harry on the back — hard. "I think it's . . . The Bloody Chosen One!"

Harry rolled his eyes, smirking at the two prats.

"See you're offering deals to Daphne, while Ron's left fending for himself," Harry asked with his brow cocked in mock indignation for his best friend's sake.

George wriggled his finger at him. "Oh, Harry. We're teaching Ron independence—"

"No free rides in life!"

"Eh, the Weasley discount rings up at the register. We were only taking the piss outta him." George dismissively waved his hand. "He'll get a better deal than Greengrass got, not to worry."

Harry laughed and shook his head.

"By the way," Fred started, "seems like the Burrow didn't collapse when Ronniekins and the Snake met up."

"That all go okay, then?"

Harry nodded. "They seemed to reach some understanding or something. They still needle each other though. It got pretty rough."

"Say what you will about that girl," George said, huffing as he lifted a box onto the top shelf, "she'll give as good as she's got."

"Yeah," Fred chimed in, "still right scowly, though. She seems to follow the Snape School of Charm and Manners." Fred paused and turned to Harry. "I rue the day she decides to turn on us."

"Wait. You think she won't stick around with us? You still don't trust her?" Harry asked, a bit aggressively.

"Harry, haven't you learned yet?" Fred grabbed him around the shoulders. "Let us take you back to a time before your parents were but a glint in _their _parent's eyes." He spoke as if he was reading a fairy tale to a group of children. "Once upon a time, there was a magical boy named Tom. The Sorting Hat put him in _Slytherin_. That boy worked hard in school, got good grades, school awards, and was the apple of his teachers' eyes. Then he grew up, went insane, and became the darkest wizard _ever known_ to this world. The end." Fred released Harry and folded his arms.

"Yeah, but it's a _really_ big leap to make between Voldemort and Daphne."

"Oh, Harry. Poor, sweet, naïve Harry!" Fred ruffled his hair and gave him a pitying look. "'T'will be a sad, sad day when she shatters all your illusions about her."

"I don't know, you two," Harry said skeptically. "Anyways, if you two don't trust her, why are you helping her out?"

Fred spoke. "Business is business, Harry. Her prank last year gave us a pretty nice boost, which carried over after we got Umbridge."

"Let's just say," George added, "we're quite good with our Dragonskin wardrobe!"

"Harry, enjoy the store! It's all yours. I'd take a good look in the back." Fred pointed to the tip of his nose and winked. "That's where all the good, Defensive-magicky stuff is.

"Hey," George spoke, in a more serious tone than Harry ever remembered the twin using, "about Daphne. Look, just think about it, okay? Keep being friends with her, if you want, but be careful about what you tell her, or let her in on."

"Oh, and you'd better mind Malfoy this year," said Fred as he busied himself with some boxes that needed reshelving. "The Ferret's been sniffing around in the dark corners of Knockturn Alley," Fred huffed as he lifted the box onto the shelf. "Or so we've been told!"

* * *

"Y'know, Malfoy's always been the one tossing off to different ways of offing Potter. Now I find you're just as _bent_ as he is." Daphne Greengrass was lamenting Harry's sudden preoccupation with all things blond, male and rodent-like that now she found herself standing outside Borgin & Burkes whilst observing the Slytherin boy. 

"Okay, first, um, _ew_." Ron scrunched up his eyes and nose, completely disgusted by Daphne's comment. "And two, this is what we do. Find evil and hunt it down." Daphne huffed derisively as Ron rolled his eyes. "Oh c'mon Greengrass!" Ron interjected. "You've no sense of adventure."

Daphne's eyes tightened into dark slits.

"_You_ have no bloody idea what it is to spy on your own housemates! To turn on another in Slytherin to benefit another house is a transgression of the highest order. Especially," she gave a disgusted wave to the three of them, "for you stupid, ruddy tabby cats."

"We're _lions_, you fool!"

"Cat's a cat, _idiot_!"

"Greengrass, take your cats and shove . . ." But Ron never got a chance to say what he wanted her to do with her figurative cats. Harry held his hand up, silencing their argument. Clearly Draco and Borgin were arguing about something having to do with a package and . . . Draco's forearm.

"I'm on it."

No sooner had Draco exited out of the store, than Daphne entered it. Harry, Ron and Hermione made sure that the Extendable Ears were working in full force, but out of sight of the wily Mammon Borgin. They pressed the strings closer to their ears, careful not to miss a single bit of conversation.

"I've never been here before! Such amazing objects would impress my Slytherin housemates, and Professor Snape so much," Daphne's said, her voice slinky and suggestive. The shopkeeper seemed to lap it up.

"Is there something you have in mind?" He walked over to her, hand resting provocatively on her back. Daphne wrinkled her nose in a flirtatious manner at the older — _much_ older — man as Harry noted with disgust.

As in 'as old as Dumbledore' older . . .

Thinking about what Borgin might have been contemplating with Daphne gave Harry the chills.

As one hand floated to the old shopkeeper's forearm, Harry, Hermione and Ron noticed Daphne signaling with her alternate hand to come inside the shop.

(_Merlin . . . a distraction!_)

Harry left the other two outside Knockturn Alley and entered under the cloak; Hermione had the foresight to pull Ron toward another storefront before Mr. Borgin could take notice of them. Potter pushed discreetly through the doorway. Daphne, somehow thinking ahead, had left it open, enough for the Seeker to slip through without disturbing the bell. He followed the direction Daphne's hand had pointed in.

(_The counter . . . of course!_)

Using the invisibility cloak as a shield, Harry made his way toward the counter on which Mr. Borgin's register rested. He looked over to the entranced shopkeeper, entranced by the spell Daphne seemed to weave over him.

"Oh, Mr. Borgin. Please tell me all about this, interesting hand? Can we use it for potions?"

"Well, no, my dear. The Hand of Glory can only be used . . ." Harry noted, with a sick feeling growing in his guts, that Borgin's hands were resting quite low on Daphne's hips. In fact, Harry thought, they were right on her . . .

"Mr. Borgin, that's the most interesting story I've ever heard!" Harry saw Daphne take Mr. Borgin by the hand. "Would there be a place for me in your store? I . . ." she put her finger to her lips, dragging her lower lip down in a motion that she must've thought was sexy, "I do so need a job after I graduate from Hogwarts, and your shop is so . . . exceptional."

Harry thought his ability to keep his lunch down was _exceptional_. He returned his gaze to the receipts in front of him, and had to restrain himself from whooping in the store outright: he found a receipt for one Draco Malfoy — who purchased:

**"TODAY, AUGUST 29TH , ONE 'BLACK DAWN' JEWEL, **

**ONE VIAL ****'RASPY'S BANE', AND**

REPAIRS TO ONE (1) 'M'NT'GUE' (this part had been marked through)

**SIGNED UNDER PENALTY OF IMPRISONMENT AND PUNISHMENT . . ."**

Harry caught Daphne's eye, lifting up his cloak to briefly expose his face. Behind Borgin's back, Daphne gave a quick thumbs up, but she continued to engage the shopkeeper in flirtatious conversation. Harry took the hint, and ducked out of the shop as fast as he could. He stayed under the invisibility cloak until he made sure Daphne was able to worm her way out of the pervy touching of Borgin.

Once she was out of the shop, Harry threw off his cloak and pulled Daphne over to a secluded alley next to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. He yelled for Ron and Hermione to join them.

"I _never_," Harry started in on Daphne, "_ever_ want to see you do that again! Daphne, that was disgusting." Harry looked at her like he was about to lose all of his meals from last week. Daphne looked right back at him, disgusted by his condescension.

"You got the receipt, Harry. Never mind how we did it. I helped you, and now we've got something on Malfoy." Her eyes went narrow and she engaged in a quick stare-down that left Ron and Hermione bewildered.

"What's going on?" Ron asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"What's going on," Harry started, "is that Daphne here nearly got herself good and shagged by a pervert selling dark objects!" Daphne looked at Ron and Hermione's disbelieving faces.

"Oh sod off, you stupid, naïve alley cats! Borgin is a lonely old man who derives satisfaction on taking things that do not belong to him and giving as little value for them as possible. If I showed him I _might_ be a willing party to give him something that he didn't have to bargain for, he was going to fall for it." Daphne shook her head as if it wasn't that bad if it was _her_ choice.

Harry was completely dumbfounded. He had reckoned all those rumors about Daphne during their fourth and fifth years weren't true. Now, he wasn't so sure.

Daphne stared at the ground. "It's just me, okay. I didn't do anything I wouldn't normally do, all right. For the right cause and all . . ." She looked up at Harry. He noted that she seemed somewhat less sure as she continued to speak.

"Harry's right, Daphne. Don't get yourself into that situation again, okay?" Hermione spoke up. Ron's hands were on his hips. His eyes kept shifting between the ground and the Slytherin girl.

"Let's take these receipts home," Harry said after a measured pause, eyes narrowly focused on Daphne. "We can go over them and talk more freely in Ron's bedroom." Harry turned back toward the bright shiny storefront of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, leaving Daphne to think about his reaction to her behavior at her own peace.


	9. Chapter 8: The Express Train to Hell

**A/N:** This chapter contains mild sexual situations and strong language.

I own none of these characters and the plot comes from the sixth book. Here, Harry observes Daphne's charitable nature, our friendly neighborhood Slytherin has a run-in with Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy, and Ron learns to give some leeway.

* * *

**Chapter 8: The Express Train to Hell**

"Bloody . . . Merlin's . . . stupid . . . hairy . . . bollocks!" Ron was grunting as he sat on his trunk; his excessively physical efforts to shut the lid had met with failure as time and time again, the contents within kept exploding.

Harry was greatly amused. Between the unclosable trunk, Ron's violently red ears and his creative swearing, it had been quite a show.

Harry smiled and shook his head as he tossed the last bit of clothes into his own trunk and shut the lid with considerably less difficulty than his best friend.

"Need help, Weasley?" Harry asked, smirking and rocking back on his heels.

Ron gave a great grunt. "MUM!" he bellowed.

Apparently, he had given up.

Mrs. Weasley bustled up the stairs. "I do _not_ have time for any nonsense, young man!"

"_Mm-uum_, it won't stay down," Ron whinged, gesturing dramatically toward his trunk, his clothes, robes and parchments scattered to and fro.

Mrs. Weasley, refraining from rolling her eyes, muttered something sounding suspiciously like, "Merlin help me!" With a sharp flick of her wand, Ron and Harry watched as Ron's things floated in neat little stacks into his trunk. The lid shut with a snap.

Mrs. Weasley just glared at him.

"Ah, Mum. You're the greatest!" Ron gave her his lopsided, cheeky grin.

Mrs. Weasley turned on the balls of her feet. "No more dilly_-_daddling. Both of you. Downstairs in _fifteen_, and _no_ _excuses_! The Ministry cars will be arriving any minute."

Ron apparently decided not to push his luck with his mother, and he and Harry began the arduous task of carrying their possessions down the stairs.

"What do you reckon then?" Harry asked his friend.

"What? About Malfoy?"

This time, Harry did not refrain from showing his exasperation. "No, the bloody Tooth Fairy! Of _course_ Malfoy!"

Harry couldn't stop thinking about Malfoy since Diagon Alley. Unfortunately, the receipt that Daphne had helped to recover provided such little information to the trio that any discussion of Malfoy's known or speculated activities ultimately met with a brick wall.

"Harry, we can't tell _anything_ from that receipt. We've been over this thousands . . ."

"What about his arm then? That's right where—"

"The Dark Mark, yeah, Harry. But, hell, even Daphne reckoned You-Know-Who wouldn't make a sixteen-year-old a Death Eater," Ron said, grunting down the last few steps.

"Well Daphne said she'd keep an eye out for him—"

"Harry, do you think that's a good idea? I mean, what if she's right? What if Slytherin's unbearable for her this year? Spying on Malfoy will only make things worse." Ron looked at Harry quite seriously.

Harry couldn't help but be annoyed that Ron had brought that point up . . . _again_. He had already told Daphne to keep out of harm's way as much as possible and to let them know if things get worse. Harry knew that she was going to watch out for Malfoy anyway for her own reasons.

So why shouldn't she report back to them about the rat's less-reputable activities?

Harry glared at Ron, about to raise this very point. As they took the last set of steps, they halted at the sight before them.

The boys saw Daphne holding what Harry recognized as a Muggle tape player. It was small and black, and it looked like the back of it had been reattached by a thick piece of electric tape.

"So, Mr. Weasley," Daphne spoke shakily, "this is just, well . . . I know you like these, er, silly Muggle things. I just thought—"

"Merlin's Beard!" Ron's father exclaimed. "Does this run on eckeltricity?"

"Erm, no. It uses batteries—"

"_Batteries_? Amazing!"

"Yeah." Daphne rubbed her neck; she was clearly uncomfortable with Mr. Weasley's excitement at her offering. "So, you'd put your cassette in here," she said, as she pushed a button and the tape deck opened toward the older man, "and you put it in this way."

Taking out a clear cassette, Harry watched as Daphne inserted it into the machine upside down, clicking the case shut.

"Then you push this button here," Daphne said as she pointed at the

"Play" button. "It'll play the songs that're recorded on the cassette for you." She lowered her head. "I, erm . . . I don't have any batteries for it, and it seemed to go wonky anyways while I've been here." She looked at Mr. Weasley, hands clasped behind her back. "You could have it, see? And maybe you can figure out a spell that might make it work without batteries."

Mr. Weasley kept turning the little black box over and over in his hands.

"What are those — _case-_thingys — that you put inside?"

Daphne chuckled a bit. "They're _cassettes_. Call 'em tapes. I'll leave the one I have here, with you, so you might be able to listen to it if you get the thing all sorted."

Mr. Weasley, with a broad smile, looked down at the tape that Daphne was offering to him. He squinted as he read the slanted writing on the ripped sticker.

"The Beatles?" he asked her. "I, um — I think that's misspelled, Daphne."

Daphne laughed again, this time more heartily. "No, no. It's right. They're not insects. They're a Muggle music group, like, er, The Weird Sisters. Except they're not magic or anything . . . well, they're not _officially_ magic . . . Their music is though. It's really great stuff. They call themselves that because they make music. The _Beat_-les. As in music _beat_. It's a play on words."

"My, my, my," Mr. Weasley said breathlessly.

"Uh, there's a song on there, one that sort of reminds me of the Burrow," Daphne said, her eyes shifting quickly between Mr. Weasley and the tape. "It's called 'Here Comes the Sun'. It's, well, um . . . ergh. . . ."

Harry could hear a tiny growl in Daphne's voice; she never seemed to wear generous or compassionate sentiment well on her short frame. He couldn't help but grin at Daphne's gesture toward Mr. Weasley and her apparent frustration with herself.

He looked over at Ron, who was clearly enjoying the display himself; he was biting his knuckles with his smirking mouth.

"It's just about sun, and life, and liking it, and stuff like that. It's just — just my way to say that it's been nice here . . . uh," Daphne crumpled her brow, "well, nicer than I thought it would be."

Harry noticed Mr. Weasley observing Daphne with amusement twinkling in his eyes. Ron's father grinned at her. "This is wonderful, Daphne, absolutely wonderful." He leaned forward, tapping his nose with his finger. "I'll probably _surprise_ Mrs. Weasley with this gift, so, let's just keep this between the two of us, for now." He raised the little black box up in the air. "Really, Daphne, thank you." Daphne looked immensely relieved. She nodded at him.

"The cars are here. Ron, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and Daphne — come on now!" They all jumped upon hearing Mrs. Weasley's shrill call. Mr. Weasley levitated Daphne's trunk. Hermione and Ginny were already nearly out the door.

"Harry. Ron. Can you get your trunks outside?" Mr. Weasley asked over his shoulder. The boys nodded, maneuvering through the already cramped space between the Burrow's dining room and living room toward the front door. Harry squiggled next to Daphne.

"That was probably the nicest thing I've seen you do since getting here D."

Daphne glared at him. Harry knew he might be treading on thin ground teasing her like this, and he didn't want to discourage Daphne's newfound altruism toward the Weasleys — particularly since she seemed so sensitive about it. He decided to ask something simple about the tape that she had given to Ron's dad.

"So, you're a Beatles fan, then?"

Daphne snorted and rolled her eyes. "Their later stuff, mostly. 'Love Me Do' and all that other pre-_Revolver_ crap? _Bubblegum_! Well, except for 'She Loves You', 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand', 'Hard Day's Night' . . ." Daphne's voice trailed off as Harry sniggered through her list of 'exceptions'. She glared at him, but smirked after a moment. "Although—" she leaned toward Harry, "if you ask me, they were wizards entrancing the Muggles with their music so they could be rich and world-famous."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he asked dryly.

"Well, them, The Who, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin," Daphne said earnestly. She tapped her head with her index finger. "I have my theories, Potter."

Harry laughed gently and shook his head. "You going to miss your tape player?"

Daphne shrugged her shoulders. "Hopefully, he'll fix the bloody thing and I might be able to use it if I'm ever trapped here again!"

"See?" Harry said, gesturing with his free hand toward the sullen girl.

"It's great to see such a pleasant attitude. Such warmth on that happy face." He gave her his own broad grin.

Daphne rolled her eyes.

Harry's brain shifted gears as he started to think about Malfoy again.

Ron's warnings stuck with him, and a bubble of guilt rose in his chest. He honestly didn't want her to take any unnecessary risks.

Particularly risks like she took with Borgin.

"Daphne, I want you to remember your promise to us about Malfoy—"

"Yes, Pot- . . . _Harry_. Don't do anything I don't have to do, stay under the radar as long and as much as possible, tell you if anything does happen, don't get hexed, don't do this, don't do that . . ."

"Seriously, Daphne. None of that . . . that _icky_ behavior that you pulled with Borgin."

"Fine, _Harry_!" she said, nearly spitting out his name. "No sex either!"

Harry scrunched his face up in disgust, eyes widening in horrified surprise.

"For the love of . . . there won't be any of that, as far as Malfoy's concerned! I hope not, at least." Harry looked at Daphne. The girl stopped, her mouth open with a retort just waiting to be expelled, but she shut it and regarded his face with a focused, serious expression.

Finally, Daphne crossed her chest with her fingers.

"I swear that I'll behave myself reasonably, Harry." For the first time that day, Daphne kept her eyes planted on Harry's face, speaking not with her usual tone of derision, but with an apparent earnestness that seemed to shock the Slytherin. With a slight flinch, Daphne snapped her head forwards and put her trunk into the sleek black car and joined Hermione and Ginny in the back seat.

* * *

(_Idiot boy! "—there won't be any of that as far as Malfoy's concerned!" The hell does he think I am, just a slag?_)

(_Well, have you shagged more than one bloke over the last one-and-a-half years?_)

(_Er, maybe . . ._)

(_And, were you currently seeing said bloke and/or blokes when you engaged in carnal relations with them?_)

(_Do I have to hex myself to stop this infernal arguing?_)

Daphne found herself repeatedly hitting her forehead with the heel of her right palm. The Hogwarts Express gave a light lurch and she bumped her head on the wall dividing two of the train's compartments.

She had to get some air. Millicent Bulstrode and Tracey Davis were blathering on about one useless topic after another.

Boys. Who's hot and who's most definitely not.

Summer vacation.

The war and speculation about which Slytherin might be getting a Dark Mark, or which ones might be sitting this war out. . . .

Even though she wanted to participate and hear what Bulstrode and Davis said, a greater part of Daphne wanted to hear nothing about it.

It only served as a reminder of what Dumbledore asked her to do.

She left the room behind and sought out any sight that might relieve her increasing tension. However, once in the hallway, she had the opportunity to think through Harry's words to her just before she had gotten into the car.

Which, of course, had led her to think about their arrival at King's Cross—

Daphne had seen the looks on Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle's faces when her party got through Platform 9 ¾. She was sure Malfoy's head had nearly exploded when she walked toward the train with Harry and his friends.

(_What did you expect anyways, Greengrass? He hates you because you chose Harry Potter over Daddy Death Eater and Voldemort._)

(_Even worse, you idiot, you chose Gryffindors over Slytherin . . . your own House!_)

Wondering whether it was obvious that she had spent part — if not all — of her summer with the Gryffindors and knowing that it could make matters worse for her if she spent the entire trip with Harry, Hermione and Ron, Daphne had sought out the least problematic Slytherins that she could sit with. She'd desperately hoped that word of her traveling companions hadn't made it all the way through the other Slytherin students before the train boarded.

She had found the two other girls in a compartment by themselves, and chanced a tentative greeting. Daphne figured that Bulstrode and Davis, half-bloods as she reckoned herself to be, would allow her to sit with them and either permit her to join in their brainless discussions about trivial matters or let her travel with them the entire way in sulky solitude while they jabbered away about trivial matters. She had a decent, almost formal, familiarity with them. They weren't friends, but they weren't hostile either.

Over the last five years, Daphne had made sure to give Bulstrode the occasional assistance on lessons so the bulky girl wouldn't squash her to death when things would get rough with Parkinson. Even though she didn't want to do it, Daphne had bribed her with writing some essays in exchange for sitting out of fights between herself and the "Pansy-Arse" in the dormitories. Thus, Bulstrode would turn the other cheek while Daphne felt free to practice her developing defense skills on Malfoy's girl toy.

Davis was as shallow as Bulstrode was thick. Daphne had learned to appease her by locking her eyes onto the bint's face as she rhapsodized about boys, clothing, and other obnoxious girl crap. Daphne reasoned that Bulstrode put up with Davis' ramblings because one, she fancied herself a girl, and two, she needed company whenever Pansy kicked her out of Malfoy's little circle.

Trying to participate in their inane ramblings, Daphne thought back to the conversations at Ron's house. Yes, there were times of tension, because of things that each of them said to the other. Sure, there were tears, there were slammed doors, there was yelling and stomping around, like a herd of redheaded rhinoceros.

But, there was honesty. Honesty and emotional frankness always seemed to pervade the air at the Burrow. One couldn't have a conversation with a Weasley, or Harry or Hermione either, without having a tiny bit of inkling of what was going on in their heads or hearts. With Ron, she never questioned where she stood with him. She knew he didn't trust her, although she knew she trusted him. They had a truce, an understanding between them, and she knew what would set him off.

Even if she went ahead and said it or did it anyways.

Then there was Harry. Even if she didn't know how Harry actually felt about her, he sought to include her in things that seemed to matter to him, to the group . . .

There wasn't a frivolous bone in Harry's body. Everything that was said had meaning. Every action had a reason. No energy was wasted on maintaining appearances.

Daphne realized she had started to let her guard down at the Burrow, even though there were times that she'd be a nervous wreck about seeing the other Slytherins.

She'd somehow, left herself open at the Burrow.

And what's worse? She had liked it.

"Well, well, well," a deep, drawling voice spoke behind her. "I'm surprised I can't smell Eau de _Mudblood_ all over you, Greengrass, if rumors of your summer whereabouts can be believed. Tell me, has Potter's little Slytherin slave returned to the nest?"

Daphne knew perfectly well whose voice that was. Without turning around, she spoke softly and languidly, "Zabini, how sweet that you're so concerned about how I occupy my time away from Hogwarts. But, I must say, jealousy sounds so . . . unappealing on you." She faced him, her smirk clearly demonstrating how unimpressed she was with him.

He snorted and shrugged.

"Why the hell would I be jealous?" Blaise Zabini walked toward her.

Daphne had to bite the inside of her mouth.

(_Does he _think_ he's actually intimidating?_)

"There's nothing between us, Greengrass." He bent forward at the waist, his nose inches away from Daphne. "Nothing but a little 'in-out, in-out' whenever I feel like it."

She laughed at him.

"God, I hate it when you get all presumptuous." Daphne walked purposefully toward him. "What the hell makes you think there's still an 'us'? You think I'm trash. I think you're an arrogant prick with pre-Death Eater delusions stinking the air around you. Ergo — no 'us'."

Zabini clearly had other things in mind. Pushing her into a nearby empty storage room, he put a finger in his mouth. Glistening in the passing rays of light from the train's windows, he slid his finger under and up Daphne's skirt and began touching her under her knickers.

(_The bloke thinks he's actually gonna get . . . aaaaah . . ._)

(_Don't let him wriggle back into your 'life' Greengrass. Be strong!_)

Zabini chuckled, arrogance dripping from his deep laugh. "You _are_ trash, Greengrass. But I can still take you, have you, however and whenever I want. And you'll fold around me like a pack of cards."

Daphne, whose breath had hitched in her throat and whose eyes were squeezed shut, forced them open so she could stare directly at the boy. Nostrils flaring, teeth gritted and bared in a dangerous grin, Daphne slid her own hand into his pants. She grasped his crotch past his silken boxers, kneading him with the hard force and quick speed she knew he liked.

"Don't forget, Zabini," she whispered, her mouth millimeters from his ears, "I know how you like it too. And I'm not afraid to use _any_ of it." She flicked her tongue out to lick his earlobe — she felt him squirm under her grip. "You don't scare me. I can take you down, either with my mouth or with other _devices_." She moved her face away from the side of his dark head. His eyes were squeezed shut; his breaths were coming slow and heavy. She knew at the rate she was going, he would have to do something to relieve his growing 'tension'.

(_If only his homicidal mum knew who her precious boy associated with . . ._)

She gave him a couple more quick jerks and removed her hand, letting it swoop through the air in front of his face with a proud flourish. Patting her skirt down, she headed back out toward the hallway.

"Nice talking to you _Blaise_. Please give my best to Malfoy and his friends."

Winking at Zabini, she made sure he was still struggling with his growing problem. Daphne let her hand linger on the doorframe as she left him, thinking the entire time she needed to find Colin Creevey — and quickly.

* * *

"Ron, we've got to get our uniforms on. Hogwarts is—"

"Still a few more miles away, Hermione. Relax."

Harry had disappeared to his meeting with Slughorn, whom Ron guessed was the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. And whom, Ron further reckoned, was some poncey git who wanted Harry on his good side for whatever reason.

(_And Neville too! I know the bloke fought with us, but — __NEVILLE_?)

(_I mean, I know I was completely disoriented and whacked out by a brain attack and all — but _c'mon! _NEVILLE_?)

Ron and Hermione were doing their final patrols of the train, working their way up to the prefects' carriage. They halted when a carriage door opened in front of them. Ron watched as Daphne Greengrass stuck her head out, failing to see that he and Hermione were standing a few feet from her. She emerged from the carriage, looking shifty — or at least shiftier than normal. Ron noticed she appeared agitated, wringing her hands in a similar manner as Hermione did when she's about to say something to Harry or Ron that she knew they wouldn't like.

Walking to her right, Daphne smacked her head directly into Ron's chest.

"OOOF! _Weasley!_" Daphne said, as she panted in shock and straightened her jumper. "Watch where you're going!"

"Hark! Who ran into whom? Up to something, Greengrass?" Ron folded his arms and gave Daphne a most penetrating glare.

Daphne managed to give Ron her fiercest of looks while developing a very guilty-looking blush across her face. "I am not 'up to something' Weasley. Contrary to popular Gryffindor belief, Slytherins don't walk around planning the fall of wizard society every living moment."

"Of course not. You have to sleep, don't you?" Ron asked with a sly grin.

"I hate it when you smirk at me like that," Daphne grunted.

"S'not smirking. It's my patented lopsided grin," he responded, turning to the other Gryffindor prefect. "Innit, Hermione?"

Hermione cocked her head as she looked at Ron. "Um, yes," she said, glancing swiftly at Daphne while pointing at Ron's face, "that's his grin. It's _meant_ to be friendly." She stared pointedly at Ron, her head lowered. "Daphne," she said, breaking away from looking at the redheaded Gryffindor and blinking, "is everything okay?" Hermione carefully and deliberately spoke. Ron turned again to face the girl, waiting for her response.

"'Course it is. Why wouldn't it be?"

There was a note of something in her voice that caused the hairs on Ron's neck to prick up. Narrowing his blue eyes, he moved past Daphne. Careful not to touch her, he nudged forward far enough that he could see the people in the carriage that Daphne had just vacated.

There were two girls Ron recognized as fifth year Gryffindors . . . and Colin Creevey.

(_Okay, what the _bloody hell_ does she need with any of those people, especially Creevey?_)

Ron looked at Daphne like he was mock-analyzing an ostensibly difficult chess move.

"Now," he said, resting his chin between his thumb and index finger, arm propped in front of his chest, "why in the world would a Slytherin sixth year student be seen associating with a bunch on fifth year Gryffindors?" Ron peered at her.

"Creevey, er- . . . gave me a bit of help last year, and I, well," Daphne stuttered and stumbled, "I might need a bit more . . . assistance this year, given the _unique_ position I'm currently in—"

"Which would be . . ."

"Helping you pathetic lot out." The sneer in Daphne's voice wasn't convincing. Ron knew she was nervous about something and she didn't want them to know.

Ron shook his finger toward the carriage. "That doesn't explain why you were in there with Creevey and those other girls." Ron hoped he sounded intimidating enough to make Daphne fold and give up whatever scheme she had going on in that slippery head of hers.

"A girl needs to keep her secrets, Ginger," Daphne spoke carefully.

(_Er . . . not quite intimidating enough, Weasley._)

"That's certainly true, if you were just a girl. You're a girl in _Slytherin_."

"Ron, _stop_ it." Hermione hissed at him. She turned to address Daphne.

"Does this have anything to do with Harry and finding out about Malfoy, or is it something _not_ involving Harry — or us — and you'd rather us not know about the mechanics of it." Hermione's voice was as precise and exact as if she were reciting historical facts about goblin-wizard relations dating back from the 17th Century. However, her stern gaze towards Daphne made Ron realize that Hermione was thinking along the same lines as he was.

Daphne let out a deep breath, her hands pulling back her hair. "Look, I . . . I'd rather not say anything to you guys about it, okay? It not, er . . . _not_ a bad thing that I'm doing to you three at all." She looked at them. For the first time, Ron noted there was an earnestness in her eyes. "It's just — I need insurance. A little extra protection for the upcoming year. And, well, possibly something that might serve me well for the, er . . . future." Daphne stopped talking and looked back and forth between Ron and Hermione. "Just . . . please. It's not about either of you or Harry." She had her hands up between them in a pacifying gesture.

Ron simply stared at Daphne, then slowly turned his stare toward Hermione.

"All right. Fine."

"What do you mean, R-Ron?"

Ron kept looking at Hermione, and raised his shoulders once. "I'll let it alone, Daphne. Seeing as you were talking to Colin Creevey, of all people." Ron flicked his head back toward the compartment. "I'm pretty sure anything Colin's involved in _wouldn't _include harming Harry. Bloke's positively infatuated with him." Ron smirked, and Daphne joined him. Hermione had covered her mouth and made a sound akin to a half-cough, half-laugh.

"Ron, we've got to finish the last bit of our patrols." Hermione walked forward, past him and the Slytherin girl. "Daphne, you'll be all right?'

Ron watched as Daphne nodded.

"Look," he started, "just, y'know — watch out for anything funny, okay? Either involving Harry . . . or if someone threatens you or something . . ."

"Weasley, don't go all soft on me, now. I couldn't handle it if you started caring about my well-being. Besides," Daphne said, as she started walking away, "I can take care of myself."

As Daphne sauntered off, Ron stood watching her, shaking his head.

"Merlin! Can't the girl just nod and smile and just agree with you?" he asked, running his hand through his hair. "All I bloody said was 'Look after yourself,' and she puts up a fight. Why does everything have to be an argument with her?" Ron threw his hand up toward Daphne's direction. He looked at Hermione, who had a very knowing expression on her face.

"Why, yes! That's an interesting question, indeed. Can't imagine _anyone_ wanting to make everything an argument." Hermione gave him one of those infernal, "I know something that you don't," looks that she was absolutely bloody brilliant at.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Hermione sighed and tugged on his sweater. "Well, I think that your observation about Daphne wanting to make everything an argument could apply just as easily to you." Hermione took another deep breath and started walking down the corridor, turning over her shoulder to look at him. "In fact, I think you and Daphne have quite a bit in common."

Ron's face crinkled in disgust. Hermione tutted and rolled her eyes.

"That's ridiculous, that is! Me and Daphne alike—" Ron huffed in annoyance.

"It's 'Daphne and I', Ron, and yes, there are some definite similarities that I've noticed. Now, _come on_!"

Hermione stalked away. Ron, hot on her heels, practically begged her to explain to him exactly how he and the Slytherin were _so much_ bloody alike.

* * *

She swept into the Great Hall . . . and people noticed.

She was far more graceful than ever before.

Her silky hair fell straight and sleek, just past her shoulders. The candles floating from the Great Hall's ceiling reflected in the tresses, giving her the illusion that she positively radiated light.

Her clear skin revealed a tawny color, kissed gently by the sun as she had clearly spent time outdoors over holiday. Her eyes, dark and deep, sparkled as she looked up at the star-spangled sky depicted on the magicked ceiling.

Every bloke in the building noticed her curves — and it looked like some of the male staff were even paying attention! There had been some . . . rather interesting developments over the vacation, and vague whispers throughout the hall speculated whether the augmentations were real or the product of a Glamour Charm or some other procedure.

And as the newly-beautified Eloise Midgen swept past the Slytherin table, Daphne Greengrass managed to spill her goblet of pumpkin juice squarely into her lap.

(_Shit! Seriously, can this day get any worse?_)

Daphne looked down her table.

(_Of course, the boys are all eyeing "Midge" like she's fucking Chateaubriand!_)

They were practically flooding the table with their drooling.

Pansy Parkinson, _always _known for her tactful and quiet demeanor, let her shrill voice ring out like a clarion call over the other Slytherins:

"How the hell did Eloise Midgen lose all her zits over one summer?!"

(_Maybe the bubotuber pus finally took effect . . ._)

Daphne glanced toward Parkinson's direction, eyes passing quickly to Zabini, seated on the other side of Malfoy. Daphne noted with a gleeful sneer that Zabini was regarding Midgen appraisingly.

(_The fool's sizing her up? How _interesting . . .)

Filing this particular detail away, Daphne quickly glanced at the two great doors, watching as Harry Potter, face covered in blood, strode in with great purpose and deliberation. He walked so quickly that by the time he got to his seat, people had barely noticed he even entered the room.

Of course, that quickly changed—

Daphne shot a glance toward Malfoy, who was entertaining his crew with punching and kicking gestures. Every once in a while, an audible "Potter . . ." and, "broke his stupid fucking nose in!" floated over to her direction.

Daphne realized she had been staring at Malfoy and tried averting her eyes, when the pale blond rodent looked up at her. For the second time that day, their eyes met.

"What do you think _you're_ looking at, you little slag? Worried I gave Potter another permanent scar? One that he can't brag about?" Malfoy raised his chin arrogantly toward Daphne.

She summoned every bit of fury into her head and shot it directly at the boy, wishing her stare would just cut his stupid, pointy chin off.

"How's Daddy, _Draco_?" she spoke in a voice she didn't even know she had. "Seen him lately? Give him my best. I'm sure he's probably finding the accommodations a bit . . . chilly. And rather de_-ment-_ed."

Instantly, the mood shifted at the table. All eyes swept between Malfoy and Daphne as they stared down one another. Daphne sucked in a great breath as Malfoy threw down his napkin and walked slowly towards her. Leaning close to her face, Malfoy rubbed at his right arm; Daphne risked the most fleeting of glances, attempting to see if there was anything to Harry's suspicions.

"You've made some _piss_ poor choices lately, Greengrass. You associate with such _vile shit_, you should expect to be treated like that too."

"It depends on your point of view, _Draco_." Making the conscious decision to use his first name like it was a vicious swear word made Daphne feel somewhat better about having a potential junior Death Eater breathing down her neck.

She pushed her face towards him, eyes focused on him, wild and menacingly. "Some of us may think associating with a dark wizard who will stop at nothing to have power only to himself is insane enough. Some of us know better that dark wizards like that don't like to play with others." Daphne stood up — her appetite was thoroughly extinguished. "And some of us have far better things to do than come up with another 'Harry Potter death scenario' that we can bang one out to!"

She smirked, having stunned Malfoy into utter speechlessness.

The fact that the skinny Slytherin boy had momentarily lost his voice didn't mean his gray eyes weren't flecked with the strongest fury Daphne had ever remembered seeing in him.

"Oh, go on!" Daphne shouted. "We all know you want to!" With a sneering pout planted firmly on her lips, Daphne clipped toward the door.

She made sure she was well out of viewing distance before stopping for shadowy cover among the dungeon hallways, hand grasping her quickly beating heart.


	10. Chapter 9: Dealing with the Devils

**A/N:** Thank you to all who have been following this story. It's awesome to see the stats go up as readers seem to be enjoying this particular tale. Please feel free to leave a review and let me know what I can do to improve anything; reviews are part of a healthy diet ;0)

I own nothing and this chapter (as the two preceding chapters) are going up unbeta'd for the time being. Definitely feel free to inform me of glaring grammatical errors. This chapter will give us some Gryffindor Trio interaction, Ron's checkup with his Healers, Ron and Hermione fluff, and a quick look at Slytherin life. 'T' for strong language.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Dealing with the Devils**

"So, Quidditch tryouts in a week and a half," Harry started, as he plopped his exhausted body into a very inviting couch. The trio had endured the first three days of classes, and were now giving themselves a much needed break in the Gryffindor common room.

Well, at least Ron and Harry were giving themselves much needed breaks. Hermione had already brought out her Arithmancy assignments before she even reached the nearest table to the couches.

Harry noticed the troubled look on his friend's face.

"Ron? Quidditch tryouts, Saturday after this . . . hello?" Harry waved his hands in front of Ron's face.

Ron didn't move.

"I'm declaring my love for the giant squid and we'll be married by the Merchieftainess of the Merfolk at the bottom of the lake. Moaning Myrtle'll give me away."

Ron looked at Harry with a very confused expression.

"Just checking if you were listening. What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Harry, er— I was thinking . . ."

"You're. Joking." Harry's face registered his apparent shock.

Ron glared at him with pursed lips. Harry chuckled and threw his hands up in surrender.

"Sorry. You left yourself wide open there."

"As I was saying. With my whole 'Watch Weasley shake when you touch him' thing going on, maybe I should step down from the team?" Ron said, hand falling to his knee, which was twitching rather violently. He didn't make eye contact with Harry.

In response to this, Harry reached over and playfully slapped Ron on the side of his head, causing Ron's red hair to swoop into his face.

"_Hey_!" Ron spluttered, spitting out the hair that got caught in his mouth.

Harry shrugged. "Seems pretty normal to me. I mean," Harry said as he gestured to Ron, "you're not shaking."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I won't _ever_ go into a fit. Who knows what'll happen once we get to actually playing."

"Did your Healers give you a Clean Bill of Health?"

Ron shook his head. "No, but they did mention that I was making great progress. I honestly can't remember the last time I actually had a fit, and, hopefully, in another month or so, I'll be cleared up of all the physical effects." Ron twiddled with the nearest cushion on the couch. "Still, I know I've got a bit of a thick head, but it probably wouldn't help if I went crashing into the ground from the goalposts." Ron gave a great sigh.

"Harry," Hermione interrupted, "you have reserves for the team?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Er, actually, it more like we try people out and whomever did second best fills in as needed."

"Ron," Hermione turned toward the redhead, and spoke in her most studious, purposeful voice, "why not ask your Healers, when they Floo to the hospital wing on Saturday, what they would propose about you trying out. If they say it's all right, go ahead and try out. Harry," she said, turning to the other boy, "if Ron is allowed to try out, minimize the amount of actual physical contact that goes on during his turn, and, hopefully, that will eliminate Ron's major seizure trigger." Hermione placed her quill down. "When Ron gets the Keeper position again, tell whomever came second best on the team that they should come and participate in a few of the practices, but only if you think it's feasible. Tell them that you're changing the system for the Gryffindor team this year simply because Ron's waiting for his medical team's full permission to participate in Quidditch due to injuries he sustained while fighting at the Ministry a couple of months ago." Hermione said the last sentence in a low, deliberate tone, speaking slowly to emphasize her point. "Remind them that he was part of that fight." Hermione gave both boys a very stern and calculating look.

"Hermione, first off, you seem so sure that I'll make the team again."

Hermione cocked her head and looked at Ron. "Of course, why wouldn't you?"

"You heard Katie right? Harry's Quidditch Captain, and he's got to make sure he's got the best players—"

Hermione looked at him very seriously. "I don't remember anyone else getting carried away on the other Gryffindors' shoulders last year after winning the Quidditch Cup."

Ron mumbled a bit with a smile on his face.

"Er, okay, but what all this about reminding them I fought—" Ron stopped as Hermione held up her hand sharply.

"All I'm saying is that if they ask or raise any questions about your condition, you need to remind them how you got it in the first place — helping Harry fight Voldemort." Both Hermione and Harry rolled their eyes as they watched Ron shudder.

Ron wanted to say something more about it, but Hermione held up her hand. "Ron, just find out what your Healers would say, and go and try out — and get — Keeper again." Hermione said with an air of finality. "I want to talk about the receipt that we got from Borgin and Burkes."

Harry sat straight up.

"Did you find anything?" he asked. Harry leaned forward, eyes intense on Hermione.

Hermione sighed again. "Unfortunately, no. I really can't make heads or tails of all of this writing on here. 'Black Dawn'? 'Raspy's Bane'? And what's a 'M'nt'gue' and why would it need to be repaired?"

Harry's back thumped into the couch as he flopped back in frustration. They were getting absolutely nowhere, and this was the same conversation they'd been having since having stolen the receipt from Borgin and Burke's.

"I've looked through my books, but there's no mention of anything involving 'Black Dawn' or 'Raspy's Bane'. I mean, I guess they could be footnoted or cross-referenced somewhere, but the texts say nothing about these — these _stupid_ _things_!" Hermione huffed and threw the receipt on the table. She rubbed her eyes.

"I suppose Borgin keeps his receipts purposefully vague since he trades in such shady objects," Harry began.

"And," Ron piped in, "since Malfoy is a Dark Arts' loving git, these objects have to be cursed or something. Maybe he does have them here at Hogwarts?"

Hermione exhaled exasperatedly. "Ron, Filch has Dark Detectors and other magical sensory objects monitoring everything coming into and leaving the castle, either through owls or any entrance. Didn't you pay attention at the prefects' meeting?" she snapped.

"Okay, sorry," Ron mumbled. Harry thought the progression in Ron and Hermione's relationship had never been more apparent once Ron stopped arguing most of the times Hermione's temper flared.

"I hate to say it but maybe, just in case, it would be worth it to have Daphne take one good look around Malfoy's dormitory." Harry looked from Ron to Hermione, who had just gasped. "Well, just to make sure we're not missing anything," he said defensively. "We never know if Malfoy could've found a way to sneak something in. Filch might've overlooked something—"

"Are you saying that between whatever means Filch is using and Dumbledore's own protections around the castle — which you know have been increased over the last couple of years — that Malfoy is _clever_ enough to circumvent _all_ of that?" Hermione's own skepticism was etched very clearly on her face.

Harry stared straight at Hermione. "I think it's worth it to do a once-over on Malfoy's things. I'll let her use my Invisibility Cloak, and we can monitor the situation just outside with my dad's Map — maybe in the Great Hall or the near enough to the dungeons that it wouldn't draw suspicion."

She crossed her arms and gave Harry a look of utter disapproval of the plan.

"I don't like this one bit, Harry. Daphne's already in a world of trouble with her House."

"Gotta admit, Harry," Ron piped in, "it has to be pretty hard for Daphne already, being around the others. I dunno . . ."

Harry could feel his annoyance at his two friends growing.

(_Don't they bloody _want_ to know? Doesn't it matter to them if Malfoy's up to something?_)

"Look, both of you," Harry began slowly, "I've already promised her and I'm promising to you two, that we'll watch out for her, okay? _I'll_ watch out for her."

Hermione's eyes lingered on Harry, telling him without words just how thoroughly she objected to this plan. Ron could only mumble and shrug a bit.

"Fine. Let's see if we can meet up with her to 'study' this weekend, after Ron meets with his Healers." Hermione punctuated her suggestion with a small breath and, once again returned to her books. "Well, so much for that little break. I've got to get straight on Professor Vector's Arithmancy assignment for next week—"

Ron looked startled. "You mean, you _haven't _already completed all of your Arithmancy homework for this year? _Hermione _— I do believe you're slipping," he said, smirking at her. Harry loudly chortled.

"Don't worry, Ron. We can at least get started on Potions," Harry said, waving his textbook in the air with a huge smile.

"So help me, Merlin . . ." Hermione grumbled under her breath. Ron and Harry grinned to each other. If there was one sore spot that they knew they could tease Hermione about, it was Harry's Potions book, courtesy of "the Half-Blood Prince."

Thinking about Potions, though, led to Harry thinking about Slughorn, which led Harry to thinking about how they met, which _then_ led Harry to think about . . .

"Okay, so Dumbledore and I start our lessons on Saturday."

That caught Hermione and Ron's attention.

They discussed and speculated about what they thought Dumbledore would teach Harry. The guessing game was always great fun, but there was something Harry felt he needed to get off his chest.

"I'm just going to say this once to the both of you, and Hermione, I'm not sure that this point can be argued. I'll ask Dumbledore if it'd be okay to talk to tell you two about what goes on in these lessons, but no one — and I mean_ no one _— else." He gave them both a serious look.

"You mean—" Ron started.

"Don't tell Daphne." Hermione finished.

Harry nodded. 

Hermione blew out a breath and nodded. "Yes, I think that's a good call, Harry. Well, it's going to be a very long year—"

"We've got no idea what's going to happen, right?" Ron said. "I mean, it seems like she's trying and all, but you never know. She might decide it's easier to stop helping us out if it starts getting too bad in Slytherin."

Hermione visibly winced. "Well, it's easier said than done, isn't it? I was able to speak to her for a few minutes before class the other day. She's okay for now, but only because she's avoided her common room as much as possible. I suspect that it's going to be far easier for some of her housemates to hex the living daylights out of her rather than let her back into their fold for any reason whatsoever. And the ones that aren't openly hostile toward her would want to avoid any conflicts, so they're not going to be coming to help her."

"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed breathlessly after a pause. "Why the hell anyone ever agree to be sorted into Slytherin is beyond me."

Harry shook his head. "If she says she'll need any help in dealing with those buggers, we should help her out, right?" Hermione nodded in agreement.

Ron nodded, looking down. "Never thought I'd be helping out protecting a Slytherin. But, well, here we are."

"Same here," Harry said with a slightly disbelieving look on his face, "considering their idiot of a Head of House would love nothing more than to feed me to a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Speaking of which," Harry muttered, "I s'pose we'll just feed people, including Daphne, that I still have detention with Snape on Saturday. Okay?"

Ron and Hermione nodded.

"Well, it's settled then. So . . . enough with the chatter. It's time to do homework!" Hermione spoke chipperly as she picked up her quill to a loud chorus of groans from her two best friends.

* * *

Daphne Greengrass' first mistake was going to the Slytherin common room instead of sticking to the library or staying in the Room of Requirement until way past curfew. She had given the password to the hidden door next to the dungeons ("_Cruor Est Vox_").

Maybe she messed up because she had let her guard down for just one moment or maybe she simply forgot the hostility exuding off Ratface himself at the beginning of the term. Perhaps Daphne could blame the scene that greeted her once she entered the Slytherin common room. The place was packed with students, all conversing with each other, playing wizard chess and Exploding Snap, charming pieces of paper into the shape of animals and having them race in the air or fight other paper-animals, and listening to the latest wizard rock band, The Lethifolds, on the WWN.

And, suddenly, Daphne forgot that she hadn't any really close friends in Slytherin. It was just another normal day.

A normal day in Slytherin House.

A loud conversation about this year's Quidditch teams was taking place in the corner of the room. Even if Daphne couldn't make heads or tails of Quidditch rules or strategy, she couldn't help gravitating toward it.

She couldn't help thinking back to the Burrow, and to the conversations between Ron, Harry and Ginny . . .

A drawling, haughty voice interrupted her thoughts, and immediately silenced the conversations that rippled throughout the room.

"So, the little '_Gryffin_-_Whore'_ returns to the nest."

(_Right on cue, aren't you, you slick-haired little rodent?_)

Daphne slowly turned around to face the speaker. Draco Malfoy, hands in his pockets, robe open and draped casually over his skinny little body, walked slowly and menacingly toward her. Daphne could see the smoothness of the fabric of his robes; they practically danced in the air behind him. A smooth guitar riff played in the air as Malfoy moved closer to her; Daphne held back a laugh, as the chords and notes seemed timed, almost perfectly, to his deliberate gait.

Malfoy's nostrils flared wide once he finally reached her.

"You should go sleep in front of their common room." Malfoy walked around her in circles while talking. "So desperate to be one of them. It's disgusting, watching you fall and drool over fucking Potter. Associating with blood traitors and Mudbloods." Malfoy stopped, sniffing the air around Daphne.

"You smell like one of them too, do you know that? Poor, weak, foolish . . . and dead." Malfoy whispered in a blood-chilling tone. He stopped in front of her.

(_All these years and barely a few inches taller than me? Such a fucking twat!_)

"You're pathetic, _Draco._" Daphne made sure she emphasized his first name, stepping forward toward him. She noted with pleasure that his pointy chin and arrogant sneer fell sharply, and his jaw set angrily on his narrow face. She continued taunting him.

"You know, I never noticed how _small_ you are, _Draco_," Daphne said as she looked him up and down. "Of course, it's normal for someone so tiny, so _petite,_ to attach themselves to someone like Voldemort — someone who exudes power and who will destroy anyone who opposes him." She spoke loud enough so the other students in the common room could hear her. She saw several of the younger Slytherins were watching the exchange, eyes darting between her and Malfoy.

"Truth is, _Draco_," Daphne drawled, face dangerously close to his, "you're terrified of him. You follow him? You live. You resist him? You die."

"_Do not_," Malfoy hissed in an angry whisper, "_ever_ call me 'Draco.' You make me despise the sound of my own name." Daphne rather thought she heard a slight quiver in his voice, like he was desperately trying to maintain control of his emotions.

"You skinny, little rodent," Daphne backed away from him and, once again, spoke loudly as she did, "who's to say you're on the side that's going to win? I seem to remember a little boy somehow defeating your own dark lord the first go around? All the rumors since our first year say that your Precious Potty Potter has _extensive_ experience in thwarting _his_ plans." Daphne snorted. "If Voldemort can't even bring down a stupid teenage boy, tell me how the hell does he expect to win?"

Daphne looked at Malfoy, waiting for an answer she was certain wouldn't come. She let herself smile with smug triumph. Daphne managed to sneak a glance at the room around them. The Leithfolds' song was still blaring in the air, the angry music matching the current levels of tension in the room. All the students were staring intently at the two sixth years who were taking turns circling each other, spitting and hissing their words and insults like two cobras, battling over a tender morsel of flesh.

Malfoy stalked toward her, his gray eyes cold and hard. "There are things you have no idea about, Greengrass. Things _will _be changing around here. As soon as they do, Greengrass, you _will_ regret picking their side. I'll make sure of that." As soon as the words left his mouth, Crabbe and Goyle appeared dutifully by Malfoy's side. Parkinson saddled up to him as well, all pug-nosed and sneering.

(_What the hell? Did he _Accio_ them or something!_)

"Figures." Daphne snorted. "You can't seem to go anywhere without your three butt-monkeys. So, tell me," she addressed Malfoy's entourage, "did you just smell his fear, or hear his mewling cries for help from the big, bad, 5'1" Slytherin girl?"

She watched in amusement as Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other in open-mouthed confusion. Parkinson on the other hand, stomped forward and grabbed a handful of Daphne's hair, pulling her head along with it.

Daphne gritted her teeth and her eyes watered. She refused to scream, to give them the aural satisfaction that they were causing her tremendous pain. Her hand instinctively flinched for her wand, but it grabbed only air.

"You should learn when to shut your mouth, you foul bitch!" Parkinson threw her hair and head back and wiped her hand on her robes. "Don't think just giving Bulstrode help on her essays will be enough to protect you. She may look the other way, but there are other Slytherins here that will curse you until you bleed."

"Parkinson, you're so bloody sexy when you kowtow to your man. It must be nice to not have to worry your precious little brain with independent thoughts or other shit like that." Daphne started running a mental list of various hexes she had seen during the DA meetings, and throughout the last 5 years at Hogwarts.

She rather thought a couple of well-placed Blemish and Boiling Blister Hexes would do wonders for Parkinson's face.

(_This was going to be a _long _fucking year . . ._)

"Tell you what," Daphne walked backwards toward the stairs leading to the girls' dormitory (and hopefully toward Bulstrode to remind her of their little deal). "I'm going to go up to my bedroom. Discuss amongst yourselves," she said defiantly, swirling her pointing finger at the four of them, "who's going to _try_ to curse me tonight. I've been itching for a good fight since the Ministry. Oh, and do remember to tell the old man 'Hello' from me, _Draco_." She looked pointedly at Malfoy, who blanched at her words while continuing to glare daggers at her.

She ran up the stairs; Daphne needed to make sure that the spells Hermione had helped her with to protect her bed and her belongings were still effective before 'Little Miss Pansy-Arse' trollomped her way into the dormitory.

Tearing the door wide open, Daphne hurtled inside, running toward her canopied bed. She waved her wand just outside her area.

"Specialis Revelio Shield!"

Immediately, a smoky image appeared. Daphne noted with grim satisfaction that it was a solid half-sphere with no holes or dark spots indicating weakness.

"God bless Charms," Daphne muttered to herself.

"Excuse me?" Daphne turned toward the direction of the voice. Millicent Bulstrode looked up at Daphne from her bed. Apparently, she had been writing in her journal.

(_Bulstrode can actually_ _write?_ _Who knew?_)

"Well, thank the goddesses! You're just the Millicent I was looking for." Daphne could almost hear the popping of joints and cartilage in her face muscles as she widened her mouth into as genuine-looking a grin as she could muster.

"Oh?" Bulstrode closed her book and sat cross-legged in her bed.

In her best imitation of Hermione at her most enthusiastic, Daphne clasped her hands together and bounced on her feet. "So, what'll it be for this year? You know I got an 'Outstanding' in Potions and I got a whole mess of O.W.L.S., including one in Transfiguration." But then, Daphne's face fell.

Bulstrode was in neither one of those classes.

What if she wouldn't be able to do any of the girl's homework for her? What the hell was her Plan B?

(_Greengrass, remember your Plan B? Involving Creevey, your friendly neighborhood photographer/blackmail accomplice?_)

"So happy for you," Bulstrode intoned in a flat voice. "I don't need those classes, by the way."

"Well, tell me what you do need help with, and I'll see what I can do to assist you, provided, of course, you're still game for our previous agreement." Daphne lowered her head but kept staring at Bulstrode with a look that said "You'd better, you cow . . . I can hex your hair off!"

Bulstrode looked at Daphne and crossed her arms. "Herbology, Charms and Muggle Studies."

Daphne couldn't help her upper lip, curling up in disgusted disbelief.

"Seriously? _Muggle Studies_? You're a bloody _half-blood_, Bulstrode! You'll have a far better time with that class than most wizards." Daphne suddenly realized something. "Why in the world are you taking Muggle Studies? You do realize that Parkinson and Malfoy _are_ in our house? They'll hex — or do worse — to you."

Bulstrode shrugged. "I needed an easy elective. Besides, me taking Muggle Studies is so far _not_ on their list of Hexing and Cursing Priorities. You may have shot straight to number one on that account."

Daphne fumed at Bulstrode. Ignoring the last observation (_which was, for Bulstrode, incredibly astute_), Daphne pushed the homework issue further.

"Why, then, are you asking for me to do your homework for you in _Muggle Studies_?"

"Why not? I get out of actually doing the work for the class, and I'll continue to not get involved with your 'disagreements' with Parkinson." At this, Bulstrode beckoned Daphne closer to her. "Look, I-I know you're kind of 'in' — or whatever — with Potter. You know, then, that your name is worse than even 'Mudblood' in this House." Bulstrode smirked at her. "If you're looking for extra protection, over and above the typical 'turn the other cheek' work I've been doing so far, it's going to cost you extra."

(_God, I fucking _hate_ Slytherins . . ._)

"Fine." Daphne said sullenly, all pretense at enthusiasm completely gone by this point. She thrust her hand, a bit aggressively, and winced as Bulstrode gave it a tremendous, painful squeeze. "We've got a deal. And, by the way," Daphne leaned forward. "I will make sure your work stays above an A in Charms and Herbology, and around an E or better in Muggle Studies. Herbology can lick Merlin's nutsack on its best days, but at least it's been useful enough for me in Potions and I can bullshit my way though an A-level essay."

Daphne kept her hand on Bulstrode's.

"Are you thinking you might get involved should Parkinson and I make for each other's throats?"

Bulstrode merely shrugged.

"Who knows? I think Pansy's being a little bitch, and I'm starting to get tired of her. Plus," Bulstrode looked at Daphne's and her hands, still holding on to the other girl's, "I'm having a hard time buying into all that 'pure-blood' stuff. Not anymore." Bulstrode shrugged again. "I'll never fight for Potter or any of 'em, and I'm not sure why you've decided to take up with them either." Bulstrode met Daphne's eyes fleetingly. "But I can't blame you for tangling with Parkinson every once in a while." Bulstrode gave Daphne a final nod and picked her book back up to continue writing in it.

Knowing there was some time left until Parkinson detached herself from Malfoy's member, Daphne set forth rechecking her Sticking Shield Charms (Hermione had found the protective, semi-permanent shield that "stuck" or attached itself to inanimate objects without draining the caster during a research session with Daphne.) around her bed and personal belongings. Then, she pulled out her Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook to finish Professor Snape's assignment on nonverbal spellcasting.

* * *

"Um," Ron began, refraining from sitting up too much, "how much longer is this going to take?"

"We're almost finished here," said Healer Morewold. She had just finished passing her wand over Ron's head. "Of course," she said in a humorless, rather stern voice, "it will take longer if you don't settle down and stay lying still."

Ron rolled his eyes in exasperation. The first half-hour of the examination had consisted primarily of a lot of physical contact between Ron and the two healers from St. Mungo's who had been tracking Ron's progress. Prodding, poking, pushing (_not to mention pestering_) practically everywhere along Ron's pale body, the Healers had noted that the redheaded Gryffindor barely flinched when touched — and, to be fair, that was when Healer Morewold pinched his arm rather hard.

(_Humorless prats!_)

This part of the examination was trying Ron's patience. There was loads of wand-waving, circular spells floating above his head, and smoky lines changed from red to green to yellow-whitish. Healers Morewold and Gibbey looked stern but nodded as they noted their observations. Their wands traveled down Ron's body, over his arms and hands, and finally over his feet and back up his legs.

The whole time, Ron saw that the lines and smoke hovering above his body reached the yellow-white light. The Healers had told him upon his first examination of his sensory system the yellow-white light meant he was healing properly. The red always meant those were zones of danger and the green indicated that the area was improving. It felt like he had been forever stuck on green — for at least the first two months of therapy.

Now, heading into the fourth month of treatment and recovery, it seemed his body had decided to finally sprint that final mile toward a healthy Ron.

"Well, Mr. Weasley," Healer Morewold mechanically nodded her thick, graying head once and her jowly mouth set in a stern line, "it seems that your body has responded well to the combination of the Neural Quick-Calm Balm and the salve for your sensory system. Very well, in fact."

"So, what does that mean? Am I totally cured?"

The Healers looked at each other and then back to Ron. "We should check back in with you every week for the next month to really make that assessment. Your sensory vitals are showing up as clean, with no internal interference, but that doesn't necessarily mean—"

"So," Ron interrupted, voice stern and angry, "you don't think I can play Quidditch?"

"We have strong reservations about it for now."

"But, my House _needs_ _me_!" Ron pleaded, his eyes wide and pitiful. "I was the reason they won the Cup last year. Quidditch is the only thing here that I'm involved in — the only thing I'm really good at."

"Aren't you a prefect?" Healer Gibbey chimed in.

Ron mumbled, " 'S only thing I'm good at that I like . . ." his voice trailed off. His eyes traveled upward to the two Healers, who were looking at him with expressionless faces. His head was still bowed, but his blue eyes were earnest, and Ron went for broke; he pushed out his lower bottom lip — just a little bit.

But enough to be effective.

Healer Gibbey was the first to relent. "Okay, fine."

"Matthew Gibbey!" exclaimed Healer Morewold.

"His vitals are okay, Velma. He's never responded better to our physical contact tests, or to our Tangible Sensory Scenarios. We still have to come here to monitor his progress, but he's stayed off broom for almost several months now. He's followed our orders since then. He should be okay."

Healer Morewold puckered her lips into a disapproving, wrinkly pout. "Well! Why don't we go ahead and let Mr. Weasley here make up his own diagnosis. His _own_ recommendations. I mean, it isn't like I'm a magical _health care provider_ or anything like that!" Healer Morewold stalked out of the curtained-off area. Ron could hear her muttering " . . . Six years of training, four years of _no_ _pay_, taking orders from a stubborn . . ."

Healer Gibbey looked over at Ron and grimaced.

"Er, hold on one second, Ron. Let me see if I can talk to her."

Healer Gibbey left Ron, and for several minutes, the Gryffindor contemplated jumping out of bed, grabbing a broom and flying defiantly over Healer Morewold's gigantic bouffant while flipping her off.

Of course, he wouldn't be helping his case out at all.

Finally, the two Healers walked back next to Ron's bed. Healer Gibbey started to speak, getting the head start before Healer Morewold's red face exploded with indignant fury.

"Ron, here's what we're going to do. We'll sign off for you to play Quidditch, okay? Since Madam Pomfrey already knows about your particular medical situation, we can ask her to accompany you to your tryouts next week. We'll also schedule our appointment for next Saturday afternoon. No arguments, Ron," said Gibbey, when Ron opened his mouth to say that Gryffindor usually has a party after the tryouts. "We'll keep it brief. We can either do it in the Quidditch changing rooms if you're wanting to get back to your housemates to celebrate getting back on the team."

For a fleeting second, Ron thought he saw Healer Gibbey wink at him, ever so subtly. He looked over to Healer Morewold, who was standing rather crossly, refusing to look Ron directly in the eyes. She had remained quiet during this exchange.

Ron nodded. "It's, um . . . it's okay," he said after a moment. "I'll do whatever you both need me to do to get back up in the air and play.

Healer Gibbey nodded in satisfaction. "See, Velma? He's agreed to it," he said in a chipper manner. Healer Morewold merely kept grumbling.

"Ron, we'll let you get back to your day." Healer Gibbey pulled out a parchment. Scribbling on it, he waved his wand and a series of sparkling lines fell on the bottom right corner of the paper, forming the name "Matthew Gibbey", with a seal on top of it. He handed it to Healer Morewold, who, while continuing to mumble about magical schools and their misplaced priorities of athletics over health and safety, added her own signature and seal.

Healer Gibbey looked over the document, making sure everything was in order, and handed it to Ron, sealed with the official seal of St. Mungo's. "Keep this seal intact, so Professor McGonagall knows we gave you this Clean Bill of Health to play Quidditch, and you did nothing to tamper with this." Both adults gathered their belongings and put their Healer hats and robes on.

Healer Morewold was the first to step into the fireplace to Floo back to St. Mungo's. Just before Healer Gibbey Flooed away himself, he turned to Ron and smiled.

"Ravenclaw Beater, 1984-1987. Two of those years, we were so _bloody _close to beating the hell out of Slytherin. So, I do get it." He bowed to Ron with a small, mischievous grin and a real wink this time. "Give 'em hell, Mr. Weasley." And with that, Healer Gibbey stepped into the fireplace and disappeared among the giant green flames.

* * *

"They cleared me!" Ron ran toward Hermione, who was sitting at a table in the Gryffindor common room. She looked up from her parchment, eyes sparkling with happiness and jumped out of her seat.

"Ron, that's wonderful! I had a feeling, though. You've seemed . . ." she paused and considered him, grinning in contented contemplation, "much better than at the beginning of the summer."

"Yeah," Ron said breathlessly. "Well, thanks to the treatments and Flora too."

"You're still going to be seeing her, right?" Hermione gave him a cautious look.

Ron nodded. "Yeah. She's giving me this week off, and we'll start back up again next Friday in the hospital wing. But, Hermione, I, er . . . uh . . . can we, well . . ."

Looking around quickly in the common room to make sure no one else was there (most of the students had gone outdoors on this wonderfully sunny Saturday, making sure to take advantage of the beautiful weather), Ron reached out for her hand, shakily. He heard Hermione's intake of breath and met her eyes.

And Ron found he had completely lost the ability to talk.

"Ron? What's wrong? You're — you're not having another fit again? _Oh_ _no_!" Hermione tried to withdraw her hands from his grip, but Ron managed to catch her in time.

He shook his head. "No, no. Nothing like that at all, Hermione." Ron gulped. "Err- . . . well," he faltered. Ron just couldn't think anymore.

His brain stopped functioning.

He was standing here, touching Hermione's hands.

He could kiss her without worrying if he'd start shaking.

And now, he was scared shitless.

(_You're joking? After what's been going on between you two this summer, you're gonna freeze up _now?)

(_You're a real smooth operator, Weasley!_)

If Ron were to act now, he'd have to go full speed ahead — no hesitation, no thought. Just kiss her like there's no tomorrow.

"Ron—"

Before Hermione could finish what she was about to say, Ron thrust his head downwards toward Hermione's . . .

And smacked their foreheads soundly together.

"_Ow_! Sonofa—"

"Oooph!" Hermione said, as she rubbed her head. Ron forced his eyes open to look at her. She was grimacing, certainly.

But she was smiling. At him.

"Ron," Hermione said, giving her head a final rub, "here, let me—"

Before Ron could say anything, she placed her hands on both of his shoulders and stood up on her toes. Ron lowered his head again, eyes opened as she moved closer to his face.

Gracefully, gently, Hermione kissed his forehead.

"Better?" she said as she backed away a couple of inches.

Ron could feel the breath catching in his chest. "Ab-absolutely, yeah. Loads," he managed to whisper in a croak.

They were standing perfectly still, faces just centimeters, _millimeters_, from each other.

So close, their breaths tickled each other's cheeks.

So close, Hermione's lashes never looked . . . 

"_Ron! Hermione!_ You in here?"

Ron looked around for a very blunt object with which he could bean his best friend's head. Harry jogged into the common room, Firebolt in hand, and Ginny hot on his heels.

Ron noticed the smirk spreading on the little brat's face.

"Right here, mate . . . runt!" he shouted out at them.

"Hope we're not interrupting anything?" Ginny said with that infernal smirk.

Hermione sighed as she sat back down at her table. "That's okay," she said as she looked at Ron. "Ron's been given the okay by his Healers. We were, um, just celebrating. Right, Ron?"

Ron knew that from the skeptically amused looks on Harry and Ginny's faces, they were not convinced that was all Ron and Hermione had been up to.

Harry settled on simply nodding, with a funny, little grin on his face. "Well, congrats." He slapped Ron on the back. "I have no doubt you'll be back on the team." Harry looked at the clock hanging in the common room. "Hey, we've gotta get down to dinner and meet up with Daphne in the library afterwards." He dashed up the stairs, Ron following him. "Hermione, we'll meet you back down here in five. We'll just grab our stuff." And with that, Harry and Ron disappeared upstairs.

* * *

"Daphne, what do you think?" Hermione whispered to the Slytherin girl. Daphne tapped the pointed end of her quill absent-mindedly on her parchment, causing a splotch of black ink to spread outwards.

What Hermione, Ron and Harry were asking of her was, of course, totally risky, completely foolhardy, and . . . one-hundred percent understandable.

What could possibly make Malfoy hate her more? Certainly not snooping around his things or the Slytherin boys' dormitory?

"Oh, why _not?_" Daphne spoke, just a bit loudly. They were in the library, after all, and Daphne Greengrass not only risked drawing attention to the table in the farthest, darkest corners of the reading hall, but also risked drawing Madam Pince's ire. "The way things are going right now, I might as well go whole hog into pissing everyone off."

"That bad?" Ron asked her. Harry sat up and looked at Daphne in a way that made the Slytherin girl's stomach jump.

"Oh, it's been a right picnic, dealing with Malfoy and his gang." Daphne said sarcastically. She shut her eyes and shook her head.

(_They're not the ones you're annoyed with, Greengrass. Don't take it out on them._)

"I'm — you'll have to excuse me," she said with a tired sigh. "I've been staying up late trying to figure out more hexes that I can use on Parkinson and others if necessary, and trying to catch up in all my classes."

Daphne didn't tell them about her 'deal' with Bulstrode. 

She wasn't sure if her conscience could take the sight of Hermione's heart exploding.

"Daphne, if this is too much that we're asking of you . . ." Harry began. Daphne shook her head.

"No, look, this is important to you guys. I'll see what I can do." She rubbed at her eyes. "I haven't seen anything on Malfoy's arm, though. He wears sweaters or long-sleeved shirts all the time, making sure the damn things are covered."

The trio nodded, with Harry looking quite pathetically crestfallen. Daphne, annoyed with herself, took pity on him.

"What I _can_ say is that while I think it might be highly unlikely for Malfoy to have the _full_ Dark Mark on his arm, it's possible that he might have a _partial_ Mark on him, which is what probably scared Borgin in the first place."

"What do you mean, partial?" Harry asked, looking from Ron to Hermione and then back to Daphne.

"Well, and this is what I've gathered from eavesdropping among the other, more Death-Eater-y of the bunch," Daphne started, silently giving thanks to the Extendable Ears she had bought from the Weasley twins. "Usually, during a ceremony solemnizing the bond between the potential Death Eater and the king snake himself, the candidate will be asked to complete a task — a very difficult, challenging, and supremely evil task." Daphne swallowed. "And by 'asked', I mean—"

"Practically forced into accepting the deed or be killed quickly and painfully."

"Quick one today, aren't you Weasley?" Daphne gave him a one-sided smile and nodded. However, her smile faded as she looked back at the table. "Of course, there are those that volunteer to be Voldemort's number one go-to dark witch or wizard. If the candidate accepts the challenge — and I don't know why they wouldn't if they valued their life — then Vol- . . . er," she looked at Ron, already starting to pale before she completed his name, "You-Know-Who puts the first part of the Dark Mark on their arm." Daphne moved her head up and down as she thought through her answer. "I'm not sure which comes first, the snake or the skull. But once the task is completed, the candidate returns before You-Know-Who, who can choose whether to give them another task to complete the Mark, or can 'award'," Daphne wiggled her fingers in the air, mimicking quotation marks, "the full Dark Mark to the candidate. It might depend on how effective and successful the candidate was in completing the task."

Daphne looked up at the trio, who had remained silent while listening intently to her. Harry finally let out a breath in a low whistle and fell backwards in his chair. He raised his eyebrows and spoke first.

"So, you're saying that Voldemort himself—" they rolled their eyes as Ron gasped, "could've given Malfoy some huge, really _big,_ evil task to finish putting the Mark on his arm?"

"Harry, what I'm saying is, if Malfoy has _anything_ on his arm, it's most likely, but still _not really _likely, given the fact that he's still in school and not even of age, that he's only been given part of the Mark. Which . . . there could be proof of that on his clothing. Maybe there's some evidence, some magical residue, maybe, that rubbed off on his sleeves. When I take a look in the boys' dorm, I can also examine his robes and his sweaters. Provided I have enough time to do so."

She paused, thinking . . .

"An hour should do it."

Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at each other, considering this suggestion. Simultaneously, they looked straight at Daphne, allowing Harry to speak.

"You're sure?"

Daphne nodded in resignation. "I'll do it. Tell me where and when."

"_Harry_!" Hermione exclaimed. "It's ten to eight! You need to get straightaway to D-" Hermione looked at Ron and Harry, her eyes slightly widening, "de-_tention_."

"Yeah, Harry," Ron piped in, a bit too brightly, "don't wanna keep ol' Snape waiting."

"Er, yeah." Harry shook his head and threw his books into his bag. "So I'll see you guys later on. Daphne, get a feel for Malfoy's routine this week, and maybe we can find the best time to get into the room."

Daphne nodded and watched as Harry departed.

* * *

"Cruor Est Vox" is Latin for "Blood is power". Translation courtesy of InterTran website. 


	11. Chapter 10: A Fool Proof Plan

**A/N:** This is going up un-beta'd. I'd like to thank my original beta, Tincat, for really helping me with those original, very rough chapters. I'm actually looking around for a new beta for the time being, but I still want to get this story up and out for people to read, critique, enjoy, throw things at their computer because I suck ;0) If there are any interested folks out there in cyberland that are interested in beta-ing this story, or can pass my name along to someone who'd be interested, please do not hesitate to send me a PM. Oh, and please excuse this American for mucking up any British-isms. Sort of flying by the seat of my pants. If anyone spots any inconsistencies, feel free to PM me or tell me about it in a review.

Chapter is rated "T" for strong language.

I own nothing . . .

* * *

**Chapter 10: A Fool-Proof Plan**

No sooner than they had touched back down in Dumbledore's office did all the questions that had been battering around in Harry's head came tumbling out of him.

Voldemort's family . . . his mother . . . his grandfather and uncle . . . and his father.

At one point, Voldemort, Tom Riddle, had a family.

And then, they were all gone.

It was just Tom. Like it was "just Harry".

And . . . "just Daphne".

"Harry, I do not wish to overwhelm you. Each of our lessons this year will contain a tremendous amount of information." Dumbledore gestured to his Pensieve. "You may find that you feel a strong emotional connection to much of it. I am sure you had such a reaction to the memory we explored tonight."

"Professor," Harry began, "it's . . . odd. Voldemort has always been this monster to me. He was this evil, dark wizard who killed my parents. But, he came from somewhere — or someone — didn't he? He had a family, a dad and a mum. He had a grandfather. Okay, sure, they were far from a stable family or anything—"

Dumbledore couldn't stop a light chuckle from coming out. "I do believe Mr. Weasley would say they were 'completely mental'."

Harry tried not to let the smile that was growing on his face escape, but Dumbledore quoting Ron was quite amusing. "It, well, Professor," Harry said, determined to say what was on his mind, "it makes Voldemort more human. But . . . why would you want to show me things about him that make him more human instead of showing me spells or magic that I can use against him?" Harry was thoroughly and utterly confused.

How the hell was he supposed to defeat Voldemort with a _bloody_ memory?

Dumbledore looked at Harry appraisingly. "You ask a very valid question, Harry." Dumbledore quickly conjured a large couch in front of his desk and gestured Harry to sit at one end while he occupied the other. "It is not my wish to arm you with as much defensive or magical spells as you think you may need to fight Voldemort. Indeed, many experienced, highly trained wizards have fought against Voldemort and his followers in the past and have lost their lives. You have faced him, not once, not twice, but five times now, and you have survived each time. The defensive magic you have already acquired seems to be serving you quite well, do you not agree?"

"Um, it's really just Expelliarmus and Shield Charms . . . "

"Ah, Harry, now is not the time to downplay your strengths! Indeed, those are basic spells. But when they are used properly, they can be quite effective in battle."

"Not when the other side's using Unforgivable Curses."

"Harry," Dumbledore looked at him with compassion-filled eyes, "Those who resort to such means either do so out of desperation or they crave nothing more than inflicting pain and exercising power over another human being. These are not spells for an innocent such as yourself. These are spells for the most depraved and power-hungry individuals." Dumbledore paused briefly, his eyes flickering from Harry to the Pensieve and back to Harry again. "My point, Harry, is that, magically speaking, you know enough already that I have no doubt that you can survive a fight if you were put into that position. What I intend to do in these lessons is show you how to _defeat_ Voldemort, to vanquish him once and for all. You do not require any special magic to complete this goal."

Once again, for the five-_hundredth _time since coming to Hogwarts, Harry saw that mischievous twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes.

"Sir, I _really _don't mean any disrespect, but—"

"What could I possibly mean by 'vanquishing Voldemort without any special magic'?"

"Um, well yeah. It doesn't make sense—"

"Ah, but Harry," Dumbledore said, as he pointed the index finger of his healthy hand in the air, "I do believe that it will the further we go into Voldemort's past. There are things specific to Voldemort's own history that will ensure his downfall permanently."

Despite these reassurances from Dumbledore, Harry was really confused.

(_So, let's get this straight: Me plus "Whatever" minus 'Special Magical Spells' equals Dead Voldemort?_)

(_Sounds more like "Dead Harry Potter" to me._)

"Now, Harry, I will bid you a good night. As we agreed before, you may tell Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, but only them." Dumbledore gave Harry a very knowing look, and Harry knew at once what the old Headmaster meant.

"Yes sir."

"That's fine, Harry, perfectly fine," Dumbledore said with a nod. "I also want to further stress to you that I can understand, and can even sympathize, with your hesitation in fully trusting Miss Greengrass, even while you are forging a friendship with her.

"But — and Harry I can only suggest this for now — I would exercise caution in making requests of Miss Greengrass."

Harry was shocked.

(_What the hell? How does he know about that?_)

"S-sir?"

"I do not know if you have already, or plan in the future, to ask Miss Greengrass to do something for you. Indeed, I have taken enough liberty myself with the assignment that I have entrusted to her. But a large part of my reasoning for doing so is to _illuminate_, to bring clarity to Miss Greengrass, so she may find what she is looking for."

At this, Dumbledore paused momentarily. Harry sat still, completely befuddled and dumbfounded by the old man.

"Harry, if you feel compelled to ask Miss Greengrass to complete some task for you, I urge you to thoroughly examine your reasons for doing so in the first place." Dumbledore stood up slowly from the couch and walked over to a large window. Harry watched as the old man looked out wearily into the inky night.

"In times of war, those who lead, those of us who are in charge of the battling forces, can sometimes reduce their soldiers and their allies to something _less_ than human." Dumbledore's head fell forward slightly, his voice tinged with melancholy and regret. "Whether it be as a mere statistic or one lone number accounting for the injured or dead. Or whether it be directing your comrades into battle, as if they are but mere chess pieces on a board filled with violence and bloodshed.

"It is easy to take for granted our fellow human beings, Harry. It is easier than you realize to forget that they may suffer from regrets of the past . . . that they may constantly seek atonement for their mistakes. And, many times, Harry, it is easy to take advantage of one's demons, especially when seeking out the most powerful weapons to bring down your enemy." He turned back around to face the young Gryffindor.

"I admit, Harry, that it is one of my greatest sins. It is what I have always known, from my youth, to the first war against Voldemort, to the current war that we are now fighting. That is no excuse, though, for doing the things I have done."

Dumbledore walked toward Harry. Standing in front of the boy, the headmaster placed his good hand gently on his shoulder.

"I say this to you, my dear boy, because I do not want you to make the same mistakes I have made. Not only with Miss Greengrass, but with anyone that looks up to you as a leader — their leader."

"Y-yes sir," he mumbled.

Dumbledore looked at him steadily for a few seconds more. Harry swallowed heavily; it felt like a rock was lodged in his throat.

(_Merlin, that's unnerving!_)

"Well, Harry, it is getting late, and I do not want to keep you from the comfort of your common room, considering you still have to talk to Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley about all the information that we have learned tonight."

Harry nodded, still a bit dazed from the memory they had just entered and from the conversation that followed.

Riddle's family, love potions, talk of war and leading people into battle.

And the one thing that bothered Harry the most was Dumbledore's own words, directed to himself, filled with almost tangible remorse and regret, and the warnings against doing something that Harry had already done.

* * *

This was absolutely, positively the _worst _way he could've begun the week.

"_Mister_ Potter,"

Evidently, pre-empting his detention had not endeared Harry to Professor Snape in the least. The former Potions Master-turned-Defense-Against-The-Dark-Arts Professor was dead set on trying to humiliate Harry in front of the rest of the class.

"Saturday evening. Flobberworms. The Dungeons." Snape leaned forward on Harry's desk; his greasy hair falling in front of his face. "There will be _no_ _rescheduling_ this time — for _any_ reason." Despite Snape's menacing tone, Harry put all of his energy toward _not_ hexing the git.

Harry turned around at the twittering behind his back. Daphne Greengrass was unfurling some parchment, quietly waving her wand just above it. Harry turned back around to face the front. Just as Snape was starting his lecture, Harry nearly jumped backwards.

Something — or somebody was writing all over his parchment.

Much like with the Riddle diary in second year, Harry watched as words, written by some unknown, unforeseen force, were simply appearing in front of him.

—_Well, Potter. Congratulations on skipping out of detention with Professor Snape with your buttocks still firmly intact!_

Harry looked around.

(_Who the bloody hell was writing this?_)

—_It's your friendly, neighborhood Slytherin, Potter. Right behind you._

—_**Daphne? **_

—_The one and only. _

—_**Why aren't you taking notes? It's Snape, after all . . . the git . . .**_

Harry heard a snort behind him that turned into a small cough as Snape looked just past his head.

_—Just because you think he's a git doesn't mean that others don't think he's a damn good teacher . . . as well as a sexy bastard!_

"Oh, that's just gross!" Harry whispered in disgust.

Out loud.

Within Snape's earshot.

Harry froze as he watched Snape sneer at him. He waited for the reaction, which came quickly from the dark-haired . . . greasy . . . evil . . .

"I see it's physically impossible for you to keep your mouth shut in _any_ of my classes, Potter." Snape snapped, speaking quickly. "Twenty points from Gryffindor _and_ detention Friday as well."

Prat . . .

Harry started to open his mouth in protest, only to hear Hermione whisper a harsh "Shush!" at him. He looked over at Ron, who was seated next to him. Ron just looked at Harry, his face completely confused, and shrugged.

Head falling into his hands, Harry just shook it back and forth, as he heard another small twittering behind him.

He opened his eyes and looked down at the parchment, which was now invisible except for one word.

—_Oops! _

"Because of you, now I've got detention with that arse two _bloody _days in a row! Thanks so much, Greengrass." Harry stormed up to Daphne after class, Ron and Hermione right behind him.

"Potter — H-harry," Daphne said. Harry could tell she was desperately trying not to laugh. "Harry, okay, I'm sorry. I picked a shitty time to try out a Dual Dialogue Charm on your parchment. But, I got excited when I had figured out how to work the damn thing, and wanted to see it work straightaway." Daphne seemed a bit more subdued now. "Besides, I could think of far worse things than being stuck with Snape for two days . . ."

Harry didn't even let her finish where that statement was going. He gagged and stuck his fingers in his ears.

"_Eurgh!_ Enough . . . seriously. I've got to eat at some point today." Harry spat back.

"That's just sick, that is!" Ron looked disgusted as well.

Hermione was the only one composed enough to speak.

"Daphne, you charmed yours and Harry's parchments in class?"

"Yeah, I just wanted to make sure I got the hang of the spell. Thought it might come in handy if I needed to tell you all something right away. Or, if you needed to talk to me, or . . . y'know, just that." Daphne trailed off, mumbling.

"No, I think that's a good idea, Daphne. Admittedly, you should have probably tried it in a different environment."

"Well, whatever. The charm worked, and I can tell you all what I found out about Malfoy's comings _and_ goings--"

Harry, Ron and Hermione leaned forward, waiting for her to continue.

"--And that's _nothing_."

Harry turned around quickly, exasperated. He threw his hands up. "Seriously, is this just a game to you, Daphne?"

The Slytherin put her hands up. "You don't understand, Harry. Malfoy's doing _nothing_. I've heard through our dormitories that Parkinson's getting frustrated with him already. Rumors are that Malfoy's slacked off his summer assignments, and is getting behind in McGonagall's class, just in the first week. Apparently, Parkinson had to write something up for him to turn into McGonagall—"

"I didn't know Parkinson was any good at Transfiguration." Ron unceremoniously interrupted.

Daphne and Harry both glared at him for cutting in. Daphne turned back to Harry and continued talking. "He also disappeared for a while Saturday evening once I returned back from the Library, and a good portion of Sunday during the daytime after breakfast. He wasn't outside or anywhere with Parkinson from what I could tell. And the morning's usually when our common room and dormitories are pretty empty"

"Well, he wasn't in the prefect meeting on the train, and I'm not sure if he's been doing his patrols," Hermione added. "So, it sounds like a good time to check his room would be—"

"On a weekend," Daphne finished, "either the evening or the morning, provided this is going to be a routine habit for him over the next couple of weeks."

Dumbledore's words of warning to Harry popped up in his head again. Harry mentally wrestled with them.

(_Annnd . . . what did Dumbledore tell you Saturday night?_)

(_Yeah . . . but we're going to be there with her through the whole thing. It'll be worth it, to us, to Daphne, if we can catch Malfoy up to some malfeasance!_)

(_Don't risk Daphne's well-being on a hunch . . . an admittedly strong hunch . . . that you still need proof of . . ._)

(_What the bloody hell do you think we're trying to do here?_)

"How about this," Harry spoke in a hushed tone, stuffing the internal battle down into the deeper recesses of his mind. The three other students leaned forward, waiting for him to talk. "We've got Quidditch tryouts Satuday, I've got my _second_ night of detention with Snape," Harry said, shiftily glaring at Daphne. "We'll have you get into his dorm Sunday morning. I'll get you my dad's Invisibility Cloak—"

Daphne whistled. "You have an _Invisibility Cloak_? I'm impressed. Is that how you managed to sneak around everywhere?"

"—and we can keep watch just outside the dungeons and warn you if anyone's approaching." Harry continued on.

"How in the world are you going to manage that?" Daphne snorted. "The entrance to the dungeons is up here—" Daphne said, holding her hand flat out, palm turned down. "The actual dungeons and commons rooms are somewhere here—" she held out her other hand below the one already out, palm facing down.

"Daphne, I'm working on that," Hermione said, with an edge to her voice that was not lost on Harry. "I might put a Protean Charm on a Knut and give it to you. If it goes hot, that means someone's coming. Harry will get another Knut that will tell him he needs to help you out."

Daphne looked between the three Gryffindors. She gave a resigned, yet final nod.

"Okay, that's it, then. Sunday Morning, we'll put your plan to action."

* * *

The rest of the week went off without too much drama for the trio. Having won the bottle of Felix Felicis during their first day of class, Professor Slughorn's affection for Harry only grew with each passing class. Harry's Potions creativity, with the assistance of the Half-Blood Prince's Potions textbook, pleasantly surprised Harry himself, annoyed Ron, and seemed to positively anger Hermione and Daphne, both of whom had worked hard at their Potions successes in the past when Snape had taught the class.

Harry and Ron occupied their spare time with Quidditch talk and Daphne occupied hers with schoolwork for herself and Bulstrode. Whenever she could fit it in, she wrote up profiles of the younger Slytherin students whom she felt wouldn't spit in her face if she started talking up Harry and his friends.

Friday afternoon, Ron left during his free period to meet with Flora, his Emotional Healer. When he returned from their session, he was in good spirits.

"Good session, y'know?" he whispered over to Harry, Hermione and Ginny. "I mean, we've only met 5 or 6 times now, but I think I'm starting to feel okay talking about stuff with her." Ron shrugged, smiling a little bit. "Kinda nice to sort things out with words and just, well, actually getting it all out like that."

"Have you been able to talk about your," Hermione dropped her voice to a very low, soft whisper, "your _nightmares_? What you saw in them?"

Ron shook his head and looked at his plate. "Not…er, really. I kind of started to talk about it today a bit, but, well . . ." Ron trailed off. Hermione took hold of his forearm.

"Hey."

Ron looked up at her.

"Ron, it's okay if you can't talk about it just yet. Flora's your Healer, and you can talk to her about anything whenever you're ready. If you're not quite ready yet . . ."

Ron stabbed around at his potatoes and his chicken legs. "S'not that I don't _want _to talk about them, but right when I'm about to say something . . ." Ron shook his head. "I mean, how d'you just bring up those — _those_ _things_? How do you talk about that with a stranger who kinda reminds me of my Mum?" Ron propped his head on his fist, his arm resting on the table.

"Only when you're ready, Ron." Hermione reached over and brushed a lock of Ron's red hair back behind his ears, which were now blushing quite vividly. Ron looked at her, smiling gently.

Harry and Ginny, who both remained quiet throughout this exchange, couldn't help grinning at each other.

For his part, Harry actually felt his own chest clenching as he gazed upon Ron's sister—

(_That's right . . . she's Ron's sister . . . Ron's baby sister . . . You know how he feels about blokes dating her . . ._)

(_Not to mention the one _currently_ dating her . . . that stupid fart, Dean Thomas._)

(_Dean's your friend, you arse!_)

(_Oh, shut up!_)

Harry stabbed away at his treacle tart, frustrated, confused, and completely entranced by Ginny's shiny red hair.

The second Saturday of September arrived and, much to Harry's relief, Quidditch tryouts went off without a hitch.

Except for a run-in with that blasted Troll-in-Training Cormac McLaggen. Harry reveled in the chance to tell McLaggen that he lost the Keeper position, although he definitely did not fancy being pummeled by the two clubs McLaggen called arms.

But Ron had won the Keeper position fairly, despite _any _protests from disgruntled candidates. McLaggen would just have to settle for backup. Harry already made a mental determination that McLaggen should remain in the castle during Quidditch practice and only brought out of his cage (_err . . . dormitory_) if Ron couldn't play.

(_Plus, we don't want the big-armed bastard to find out Hermione confounded him . . . I think._)

The Gryffindor common room had been party central for a time after the tryouts. Which was good, since Ron had only just arrived to celebrate winning back his spot on the team

"Thumbs up!" Ron had run to Harry, Hermione and Ginny, winking to them as Harry shoved a butterbeer into his friend's hands. There was a rowdy wrestling match involving many of the Gryffindor sixth year boys — Hermione tutted aloud that perhaps Seamus Finnegan had got hold of some firewhiskey or oak-matured mead — and the rough-housing resulted in a moderate food and beverage fight and overturning several chairs and small tables in the common room.

"It's going to take forever to clean this mess up!" Hermione fretted, with a bemused smile and small chuckle.

Harry, Ron and Hermione decided to brave the one thing they hadn't yet had a chance to do since school started; they were going to go see their half-giant friend, Rubeus Hagrid.

It was a bad sign when they made their way to Hagrid's hut that he looked at the three of them with a cloudy expression.

"Ah, it's jus' you three—" said the hairy Gamekeeper with a great grunt.

Ron slapped his forehead. "Oh boy . . . this isn't good, is it?"

Harry, Ron and Hermione spent the next several minutes mollifying Hagrid.

"We wanted to take your class—"

"There were simply too many other classes that we needed for our careers, Hagrid."

"Yeah, scheduling conflicts . . ."

"We should really look into Time-Turners . . ."

"Hermione, are you mental?"

"I am _not _mental, Ron!"

"—Hagrid, if Aurors required Care of Magical Creatures . . ."

Once Hagrid brought out the rock cakes and tea, they knew that all had been forgiven.

Talk turned to Grawp and Aragog, Hagrid's pet acromantula, who had ordered his family to devour Harry and Ron their second year.

" 'E's been sick an' all. I thin' it's the end for ol' Aragog. Oh, an' we've known each other fer so long!" Hagrid howled.

Despite the attempts to look sympathetic, Ron blanched the second Aragog was brought up; it was quite clear that Ron hadn't forgotten about the giant spider.

Dinner, too, was uneventful, save for a couple of notable events. One, Professor Slughorn suddenly appeared in front of Harry, Ron and Hermione, nearly tripping them as they made their way to the Gryffindor table.

"Harry, it would be the greatest pleasure for me to have you join the little soiree that I'm having tonight? Mr. Zabini, Mr. McLaggen, Melinda Bobbins, and hopefully you and Miss Granger both will join us."

The pompous buffoon completely ignored Ron — a point that was not lost on Ron himself. He stomped over to the table find a seat.

"Er, I have detention with Sn- . . . I mean, Professor Snape tonight."

"Oh, what a shame! I'll have to talk to him about rescheduling your detention for later." And off he waddled to confront Snape. Harry practically guffawed at that image.

(_As if Snape will reschedule detention for _that_ reason!_)

Trying to ignore the sour mood Ron was in for the rest of the evening, Harry noticed that Daphne was actually sitting at the farthest possible end of the Gryffindor table — with Colin Creevey. He couldn't help staring at disbelief at the very unusual pair. They were hunched over, side-by-side, whispering to each other and casting furtive looks over to the Hufflepuff table.

Harry chanced a glance to the table — and saw Blaise Zabini sitting _awfully _close to the new and improved Elosie Midgen. Zabini had propped his head on his arm, and was casually saddling the bench, angled toward Eloise in a manner that told Harry Zabini had _zero_ interest in his food but around ninety to ninety-five percent interest in wooing the fair Hufflepuff sixth year.

And, from the looks of it, Daphne and Colin Creevey were up to something quite covert in regards to Zabini's attempt at courting Eloise. Harry got Hermione's attention, who then shook Ron out of his stupor. He showed them what he had just observed. Ron and Hermione appeared unsurprised.

"Er, well, yeah — we saw Daphne coming out of Creevey's carriage on the Express. She assured us that it had nothing to do with us, though." Ron turned to Hermione. "Didn't she mention 'protection' or—"

"I think the word she used was 'insurance'," Hermione spoke up.

Harry held up his hands. "If you guys think it's nothing we have to worry about, then I'm good with not knowing . . ."

"Wait, you're not the least bit curious?" Ron asked incredulously.

"Well, I probably wouldn't stop her if she decided to talk. But, I'll leave this alone." Harry shook his head and gave a small lopsided grin. "Just not sure I want to know details or anything. I just hope it's, well," Harry took a breath, "it's nothing awful. And Creevey wouldn't do anything _too _terrible. Would he?"

"Well, not to you." Ron said after a moment. "But he's friends with Ginny. And Ginny can be devious and quite evil when she wants to be."

Harry gave a good belly laugh at this. "That I can agree with." When Ron raised his eyebrow at Harry, he realized he hadn't quite stopped chuckling about Ginny. Shaking himself out of it, the trio once again went back to discussing plans for tomorrow.

* * *

"Daphne has her Knut and the Cloak." Hermione said as she and Ron walked briskly down the flights of stairs toward the very last floor where the entrance to the dungeons was located. There was a bench just outside the Entrance Hall's doors, in the courtyard where students could usually be found playing Exploding Snap or talking to the Gargoyle statues that told the most inane jokes. Ron and Hermione had chosen that spot to keep watch on Daphne and Harry using the Map and as a rendezvous point for all four teenagers to meet up after breaking into the Slytherin dormitory.

Ron waved the Marauder's Map in the air. "Okay, so it looks like both Daphne and Harry's—"

"Just by the doors." Hermione pointed at the small figure, standing with his arms crossed, foot tapping. Harry kept turning his head to his right. Ron could see his mouth moving, talking fast and quiet toward the air next to him.

"Oh, that _idiot_!" Hermione whispered, albeit loudly, to Ron. "He's just going to succeed in drawing attention if it looks like he's talking to himself."

They leapt down the remaining flight of stairs, and strode next to Harry.

"Ready Harry? Daphne?" Hermione asked. Harry nodded. To his right, Daphne peeked her head out from under the Invisibility Cloak; had Ron not been so used to using the cloak himself or seeing Harry with it on, the sight of Daphne's floating head would've startled him.

However, there were other, more important things on their mind.

"You two got your Knuts?"

Harry nodded and held his up. Daphne did the same.

"Good. Okay, so, I'll Disillusion Harry in approximately five minutes. The spell will last long enough, Daphne, for you to do a search through the dormitory. Harry, you'll be in there if Daphne runs into any trouble. If we get wind of any problems—"

"How do you plan on doing that, if you're going to be outside?" Daphne asked. Harry, Hermione and Ron looked at each other. Harry nodded to Ron. The redhead showed Daphne the Map.

"This is the Marauder's Map. It's a lay-out of the entire ground of Hogwarts, everywhere in the school. Including the dungeons and the Slytherin common room and dormitories. It's been enchanted to show where people are at any time inside the castle."

Daphne looked at the Map, breath held in awe.

"That's . . . bloody amazing, that is!"

Ron smiled at her awed expression. "It's one-of-a-kind, that's for sure. No other map like it." He met Daphne's eyes. "We'll look out for you, okay?"

He saw Daphne swallow. Slowly, she nodded.

"I agreed to do this, didn't I? I know what trouble I could get into."

"Daphne," Hermione said, "you don't have to do this. Tell us if you want to back out now, and you can. We'll find another way . . ."

"Gran- . . . er, Hermione," Daphne, looking like a disembodied ghost, held her hand up, "we need to do this. I want to know if Malfoy is a little Death-Eater wannabe. And if he's up to something pretty damn evil." With that, she gave a final nod and retreated back under the cloak.

"Okay, so does the map show where Malfoy is right now?" Harry asked.

Ron nodded. "Yeah, he's actually in the Library." He pointed his finger to Malfoy's name on the map. "He's been there for about an hour."

"Harry, your Knut is charmed to vibrate and go ice-cold simultaneously if we see on the map Daphne's getting into trouble, okay?" Harry nodded soundlessly.

"Are you ready?" Hermione asked, rolling her wand between her fingertips. Harry nodded once more, and he closed his eyes and felt the familiar cold tingle flooding down his back.

* * *

"Harry, you doing all right?" Daphne whispered to him once they made it inside the Slytherin common room.

"'M'fine, Daphne." His voice sounded a bit shaky to her.

"Okay. I'm going to head up the stairs in three. There's no one in here right now, so you should be okay, given that the charm holds. I'll meet you right in this corner after I'm finished, at which point, I won't need the cloak." Daphne coughed and steadied her breathing. "Okay . . . One . . . two . . . _THREE_!"

She dashed up the stairs as quickly as she could, and opened the door to her destination.

Daphne slid inside the room. She shrugged the cloak off her body and took a deep breath.

The dormitory was shaped just as the girls'. The room had high, vaulted ceilings in black stone, polished until it gleamed and shined in the candle light. Emerald curtains surrounded the windows in rich velvet; the fabric fell in many layers and each panel was tied back with thick, silvery rope. Daphne looked at the beds. Each bed had school-standard sheets and pillows, which were soft and nice enough, but if a parent decided to bestow upon their child the nicest bedding money could buy, the school wouldn't be able to turn them down.

Daphne took two deep breaths.

"Okay, Greengrass — no time like the present."

Scanning the room, she found the two beds, covered with what looked like the most expensive overlays and pillows she had seen at Hogwarts.

Clearly, these were either Malfoy's or Zabini's. A quick glance at the pictures on the desk near the first bed told Daphne this must be Zabini's space; she was fairly certain Malfoy's mother, Narcissa, was a beautiful blonde-haired lady, rather than this stunningly gorgeous black woman.

(_Although both seem to have the whole 'homicidal maniac' thing in common!_)

The second bed proved to be Malfoy's. Casting Scarpin's Revelaspell, Daphne took a moment to peruse the contents of his desk. A picture of the aristocratic Malfoy family sat on the right corner of the desk. Daphne regarded it quickly; the portrait was, for old Ratface, so . . . normal. Certainly, 'Picture Malfoy' was looking at her with an air of smug superiority — and really, his chin never seemed so arrogant. His father and mother wore similar expressions. But, as Daphne looked longer and more closely at the photograph, she saw Narcissa's hands reach up to her shoulders, grasping Lucius' hand as it rested on her left, Malfoy's as it rested on her right. And Lucius had his arm around Malfoy in a partial hug, which the boy clearly enjoyed. And there was a smile on the elder Malfoy's face — one that wasn't filled with the arrogance, the malice that Daphne had seen at the Ministry.

Lucius' smile was fatherly . . . loving.

They were a family, no doubt.

And it went beyond the striking physical similarities.

Such a revelation stunned Daphne for one moment, although the implications pulled her violently back to reality.

(_If Malfoy's this close to dear Lucius, why_ wouldn't _he follow in his footsteps?_)

Hastily, Daphne set the photograph back to its original position. She examined the contents of the desk quickly. Malfoy had a couple of books and rolls of parchments for Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms. He had a book out from the library regarding wizarding carpentry and building and repairing magical furniture, and a stack of papers and envelopes that looked oddly like letters. She examined a few, which turned out to be letters to and from his mother.

There was nothing under his bed, nor was there anything hidden in the vast sea that was his pillows. Daphne moved over to his trunk. Quickly waving her wand to determine if there were any spells around it, Daphne opened it.

There was nothing inside.

Exhaling in frustration, Daphne moved over to Malfoy's closet. Oddly, there were no spells around the closet either. Daphne muttered "_Alohomora_," and the closet opened up for her without any problem.

Malfoy's school robes were all neatly hung, with nary a crease marring the smooth, rich, black fabric. He had an assortment of wonderfully soft sweaters and shirts, in dark colors, and his shoes practically blinded Daphne with how bright they shined in the darkness of the closet.

Briefly, she wondered what would happen if she set fire to his wardrobe.

Lifting the first folded sweater, Daphne took out the sleeves. Turning them inside-out, she uttered "_Specialis Revelio_."

Nothing . . .

Sighing, she tried a different track.

"_Specialis Revelio Morsmordre_?"

Once again nothing.

Quickly and hastily re-folding the sweater. Daphne performed the same spells on the robes and other clothing in the closet.

Nothing indicating any Dark Mark residue on his clothing appeared.

"Dammit!" she muttered to herself. There was nothing in the drawers of his desk, nor was there anything in his closet. And that trunk of his was an utter disappointment.

"_Accio Borgin and Burkes' merchandise_ . . . _Accio M'nt'gue_ _Accio 'Black Dawn'_? _Accio 'Raspy's Bane'_?" Daphne uttered desperately into the room. Nothing flew into her hands.

(_You're letting them down, Greengrass!_)

(_Seriously, can't I just leave _myself_ alone?_)

Daphne felt a strong surge of heat from her pocket. Feeling for the Knut, she verified that it had, indeed, grown very hot. She slammed the closet door shut, made sure everything was well in its place and dove for the Invisibility Cloak, which was lying on the ground next to Malfoy's bed.

She barely had time to make it to the door, when Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott strode into the room, Zabini nearly slamming the door shut. Breathing a sigh of relief that they hadn't noticed her, that she remained perfectly concealed underneath the Cloak, Daphne stuck her foot and hand over the door to prevent it from shutting completely, and, stifling a yelp of pain, squeezed through the small opening. She let the door close naturally, but not before noticing the curious look on Zabini's face as he noticed the door's unusual behavior.

"Harry!" Daphne whispered in the corner of the common room once she had returned from her mission.

"You okay?" she heard, rather than saw, Harry speak. "For a second there, when I saw Zabini and Nott go up the stairs, I thought you were going to be in serious trouble. I was waiting for my Knut to start vibrating . . ."

"Bloody_ hell, _that was close!" Daphne was having quite the time trying to catch her breath. "We need to get out of here." Quickly scanning around the room, Daphne saw there were no other Slytherins nearby. She shed the cloak, felt for Harry's head, just to her right.

"Ow!" she heard him whisper. "My cheek." Her fingers had been a bit zealous in seeking out Harry; she had poked him hard on the right side of his face.

Throwing the Cloak over Harry's Disillusioned body, Daphne muttered "Let's get going."

"Right behind you," she heard Harry whisper.

Walking as if it had been just another normal day, Daphne Greengrass strode out of the Slytherin common room, seemingly all by herself.

* * *

"_Nothing?_" Harry swore as he ran his hands through his perpetually messy black hair.

"H-harry, I'm—" Daphne shook her head, looking utterly forlorn. "I'm sorry. There was nothing under his bed, in his trunk, nothing in his closet except for his clothes."

"And on his desk?" Harry asked, although it sounded less like a question and more like a statement or command.

Once again, Daphne shook her head and shut her eyes in a long, tired blink.

The four students were walking along the pathway leading out from the castle to Hagrid's cabin. There was no one in within listening range, but that didn't stop the students from speaking in hushed tones. Ron and Hermione could only stand and watch the exchange between the two amateur spies. Ron rubbed at one side of his face, thinking through something. "Daphne, run by what you saw on his desk again."

Daphne took in a deep breath. Keeping her eyes shut, she repeated the information, nearly verbatim from the five other times she recited it.

"Malfoy had a bunch of letters from his mother, probably about five or six or so, which is a pretty good haul for just being away for two weeks. There was nothing incriminating in those letters. He also had school assignments, and his Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms book. There was a library book also."

"What was that book about again?" Ron asked.

Daphne shrugged. "Magical carpentry, or something like that."

Ron turned to Harry and Hermione. "What d'you reckon? Is that for the 'M'nt'gue that needs repair?"

Harry nodded slowly. "It has to be. Malfoy's repairing something himself, and he needs any and all resources to help him with fixing it."

"Unfortunately," Hermione spoke up, "it gets us no closer to figuring out what the 'M'nt'gue' is."

"You didn't see anything mentioned in the letters, Daphne?" Harry asked.

"Not a single word about furniture, or repairing furniture, or building furniture, or so on."

"And there's no way he could've brought any big pieces to Hogwarts, without drawing _some_ attention," Hermione continued.

"I'm . . . I'm just sorry." Daphne looked at the trio, who were now staring at her in disbelief.

"Don't be daft!" Ron said, brow furrowed. "We took a shot, and it didn't pay off."

"If Malfoy's hiding something, then he did a good job of it, Daphne. We'll just go to the next step." Harry heard Ron and Hermione groan.

"Harry, it isn't necessarily that we disagree with you—" Hermione spoke first.

"But we can't keep chasing down invisible hippogriffs, y'know?" Ron finished. Harry, Daphne and Hermione looked at him with puzzled expressions. "You know what I mean, going after Malfoy if there's nothing going on at all."

"You mean like a wild goose chase?" asked Hermione.

"Sure."

"But don't you think it's strange that Malfoy's been acting oddly, saying all sorts of crazy things, as Daphne's confirmed." Harry motioned to the Slytherin girl. "He's giving Borgin and Burkes some business, _and _there's some weird connection between repairing furniture and Knockturn Alley's Number One Hotspot for all your Death Eater needs."

Harry looked over from a skeptical Ron and Hermione to Daphne, who was lost in thought.

Daphne spoke up first. "What if I try to examine Malfoy's arm and see if he's got the Mark? Or at least try to gather any information from Parkinson as best as I can."

"Wait. You would do that?" Harry asked her. To Ron's dismay, he could almost see Harry's mouth turning upwards into a smile.

(_He's actually enjoying this? He _wants _her to do this?)_

Daphne nodded. "I mean, Parkinson despises me right now, but she'll talk to Tracey Davis, and Blaise Zabini is in with that crowd a bit." As soon as she mentioned Zabini's name, Daphne smiled rather sneakily, as if she had a great secret just dying to jump out of her. "Oh, actually, this might be easier than I thought."

Ron cocked his eyebrow at her. "Does this have anything to do with your 'insurance' that you were going on about on the Hogwarts Express?"

"A girl never tells, Weasley," Daphne said, twirling around almost giddily.

"You aren't going all 'Slytherin' on us, are you?" Ron asked her suspiciously. Hermione smacked him hard on the chest.

He immediately regretted asking that question as he saw Daphne's face fall.

"What's it going to take, Weasley?" Daphne's voice shook as she tried to keep her emotions in check. "I've thought we were finished with all of this." She walked toward him slowly. "You asked me to watch out for Malfoy and any strange behavior? I did it. You asked me to look around his dorm room? I did that too. Dumbledore asks me to recruit other Slytherins to Harry's side? I'm working on that." She pointed a finger at his chest, poking him hard with each sentence. "I've had it up to here—" she put her hand up to her head, "with your unwillingness to just trust me."

Ron was shaken himself. It was the first time that any comment he made in regards to Slytherin honor — and the lack thereof — made him feel like complete and utter shit.

"Daphne, hey!" Ron called out as the Slytherin girl turned back toward the castle, practically running away from the Trio.

"Ron!" Hermione rounded on him. "I can't believe you. After what she just did for us . . ."

"Didn't you say yourself that you thought she was trying?" Harry asked.

All Ron could do was shake his head and throw his hands up.

"I don't know why I said that, okay? Well, I mean, I do know why, but . . ."

"But what, Ron?" Hermione asked harshly. She crossed her arms, waiting for him to respond.

"No, no, " Ron said, squeezing his eyes shut. "I know, all right? I shouldn't have said that and I need to apologize to her." He scratched his head and ruffled his red hair in frustration.

"Well, good. I'm glad we got that settled," Hermione said, with a firm nod of her head.

With that, the trio headed back up to the castle, with Ron hoping that, at some point over the next week, he could manage to stumble through some sort of apology to the Slytherin girl.


	12. Chapter 11: An Apology Accepted

**A/N**: Thanks so very much to my beta, stella8h8chang; without her, I'd be lost in a sea of misused words and verb tense issues.

Please take a moment to read and review my one-shots set in the "From Hell" Alternate Universe if you haven't done so yet. I'll be posting a few related to this story over the next few weeks as I update chapters.

This chapter contains fairly intense swearing. I own nothing. Please let me know what you think in a review . . . I bake a mean cyber-cake to all participants!

**

* * *

Chapter 11: An Apology Accepted**

"Gabriel Worthington . . . no, no. Family's too wealthy. Unlikely prospect . . . Probably worships the Malfoys for their 'creative investments' . . ."

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

"_Gregorias _Capulet? _Erugh_! With parents like these, who needs Voldemort? Well, he's a possibility, at least."

Scribble. Scribble. Scribble.

"Ophelia Grout. Half-Blood . . . Bulstrode-like modest income . . . Not to mention having a name that sounds like a disease . . . Possibly could be swayed and convinced Potter's not entirely _potty_. . . ."

Daphne reckoned that the average witch or wizard probably would've thought she looked rather insane, muttering to herself like this. She had spent the better part of the evening in the library, studying notes about the second- through fifth-year Slytherins, dissecting various qualities or traits that might make some of the little "Snakes – In – Training" more pliable to Harry Potter's position.

It had been _far _more time consuming than she had thought it would be.

Daphne had been working on Dumbledore's project _and_ had finally got a handle on doing both her and Bulstrode's schoolwork. That hadn't been easy. The amount of sleep she was getting at night was now around 4 hours or so . . . if she was lucky.

Which probably explained why she had been so snappy to Ron . . .

(_Oh, let's not dwell on that unpleasant business!_)

(_Why the hell is the fact that the redheaded git's being an idiot about me unpleasant?_)

Daphne rubbed her tired eyes. She could feel them watering beneath her fingers.

(_From the yawning, you stupid, emotional cow! Not that your crying or anything . . . right? RIGHT?_)

The last thing Daphne wanted to admit to herself was that Ron's continued distrust bothered her. But it did, and it hurt her to a far greater extent than her currently crabby disposition had led her to believe.

Despite a few missteps every once in a while, she and Ron seemed to be making a concerted effort to try to get along. She had thought — quite foolishly — that they had worked through their initial mistrust issues and were paving the road to . . . ?

(_To what, exactly, Greengrass? Everlasting friendship?_)

Daphne snorted.

(_That's a laugh!_)

The silly thing was, even though it was Harry who made her chest and stomach leap up into her throat, it was Ron who made her feel confused. Not just about him, but about herself.

Daphne was starting to think that the day Ron could finally say, without doubt or hesitation, that he could trust her completely would probably be the happiest day of her life. And she hated that her moral compass, her conscience, wanted to be steered by this poor, gangly, poor, stubborn, (_Oh, did I mention _poor?) redheaded slacker of a git.

Was Ron a paragon of proper behavior?

(_Um, that would be _NO!)

Hell, even Hermione broke rules. Harry _definitely_ broke rules. But their code of conduct seemed only to apply to them — the Golden (_Stupid_) Trio.

Others, especially short, greasy-haired Slytherins, need not apply.

She heard a cough in front of her.

"Is this seat taken?"

Hearing that _very_ familiar voice and spotting the white, freckly finger pointing to the chair in front of her, Daphne didn't need to look up to know who the speaker was.

She slammed her feet into the chair.

"Yes, Weasley. It's taken."

"By who?" Daphne could hear him frowning.

"None of your business who I sit with, _Weasley_. Leave me alone."

Silence.

"Okay," Ron said in an even voice. "I deserved that."

Well _that_ made Daphne set her quill down.

"You want to talk to me, Weasley? I'm extremely busy."

"Look, we should talk, okay? But not here." Ron motioned with his head. "C'mon." And with that, he walked toward the doors that led out into the fourth floor hallway.

Daphne paused, taking in three deep breaths. Rolling her eyes and frowning, she stuffed her parchments into her bag and followed Ron out of the library.

* * *

"If I didn't know better, Weasley, I'd say we're going for a quick snog."

To his credit, Ron refrained from rolling his eyes. He knew when Daphne Greengrass was feeling particularly stressed and angry_ and_ annoyed about something, she tended to make off-color comments or jokes. Usually, they revolved around sex or some permutation thereof. However, there was very little that Daphne could say that actually shocked him.

(_It's what happens when you have four older brothers_.)

(_Percy the Git doesn't count._)

"All right, Weasley. I'm waiting." Ron led her through the entrance hall corridor all the way to the large painting of a bowl of fruit. He finally came to a halt.

"Okay, Daphne," Ron said, clasping his hands together. "Have you ever been here before?"

"Nope. Where the hell are we?"

"If you want to find out, you've gotta tickle the pear."

Daphne wrinkled her nose. "Is that some sort of new street slang, Weasley? Because, seriously . . . _ew_!"

"Just tickle the pear." Ron gestured at the pear in the portrait. Daphne continued to frown. "Go on, it won't bite."

"Just so you know," Daphne said as she reached up toward the fruit bowl, "I've never 'tickled the pear' in front of anyone before. Better feel privileged, Weasley."

This time, Ron rolled his eyes.

And he grinned as he watched _Daphne's_ eyes open wide as the pear changed into a door handle.

They opened the door, and walked through the threshold into the room beyond.

If Daphne's eyes were wide when she discovered the doorway, Ron thought Daphne's eyeballs would pop out of her head once they actually entered the room.

(_Oh, Merlin . . . . This is gonna be entertaining!_)

"Oh my _Goddess_ . . . !" Daphne breathed. Ron gave a great toothy smile as numerous house-elves bustled around the large room that was covered from floor to ceiling with pots and pans of all shapes and sizes. The large fireplace roared at the other end of the room, giving off a comforting, enveloping heat that made the kitchen rather cozy and comforting.

Daphne's amazement with the Hogwarts' kitchens was broken by a loud _THWUMP_, as a house-elf practically smothered Ron.

"Harry Potter's Wheezy! Dobby is so happy that Harry Potter's best Wheezy has come to visit us!"

Once Ron had been able to meet him, he had found great amusement in Dobby and the house-elf's enthusiasm involving anything related to Harry. The smile on Ron's face grew even bigger.

"Hey Dobby. How's it going?"

"Oh, Mr. Wheezy! Dobby is loving Hogwarts! Professor Dumbledore is giving Dobby pay still. Dobby has pay to buy him all the socks and sweaters that Dobby _is_ _wanting_!"

"That's really wicked, Dobby. Here, do you want to meet another one of Harry's friends?" Ron laughed good-naturedly as Dobby stood straight up, barely reaching Ron's waist.

"Dobby is always wanting to meet Harry Potter's friends! Harry Potter is always having the best friends . . ."

Cutting the house-elf off from further rhapsodizing about all things Harry Potter, Ron gestured toward Daphne. "Dobby, this is Daphne Greengrass. Daphne, this is Dobby, the only free house-elf in all of England." Ron looked at the dazed expression on Daphne's face and gave a great chortle, directly from his guts.

"Erm, uh, pleased to meet you . . . um, Dobby." Daphne held out her hand to the house-elf in a very uncertain manner, with an even more uncertain expression on her face.

Dobby, being Dobby, smashed into her lower body, squeezing her surprisingly tight, given his long, spindly arms.

"Oh, Miss Greez-, Miss Greeve-grazzy . . ."

"We call her 'Daf' or 'Daffy', Dobby." Ron grinned as Daphne glared at him.

"What? It'll make it easier on him." Ron shrugged and winked at Daphne. She looked as though she'd punch him on the spot, if she wasn't being violently hugged.

"Is there something that Harry Potter's Wheezy and Harry Potter's Daffy would like to eat?" Dobby said, finally releasing Daphne from his tight grip.

"Actually, Dobby, can you make something for us?" Ron leaned over and whispered to Dobby exactly what he wanted the house-elf to make for him and 'Harry Potter's Daffy'.

"Oh, Mr. Wheezy, Dobby will make that very quickly!" And, with that, Dobby scurried away.

Ron let Daphne shake off her very first encounter with Dobby.

"He can be a bit overwhelming at first, but Dobby's a great fellow."

"Yeah, positively charming when he's not squeezing the life out of Harry Potter's 'best friends'." She raised an eyebrow at Ron. "You still haven't said what we're doing here, Weasley."

"Okay, look, there's a table. Let's have a seat, okay?"

Ron placed his bag on the floor next to his chair. Daphne plopped herself into the seat in front of him.

"C'mon," she said, with a twinge of impatience. "Out with it!"

Ron held a finger in the air. "Wait for it . . ."

As if on cue, two big bowls appeared before them, along with a huge pitcher of warm milk and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Ron watched as Daphne looked into the bowls, her face a mix of gleefulness and shock.

"Y-you got Dobby to make this?"

Ron nodded. "Yup! You ask, and they make." Ron looked away from her. "Thought that maybe we could do this every once in a while, y'know?"

When he chanced a glance up at her, Ron frowned at Daphne's darkening expression.

"Weasley, why the hell would you want to do anything with me? You've made your opinions about me _loud _and_ clear_. Over and over again." Daphne pushed the bowl away petulantly.

Ron let out a breath. "Yeah, I-I know." Ron took hold of the ornate metal spoon sticking out of his bowl. "Okay, about that," Ron said, almost mumbling. He chewed on the corner of his bottom lip, nervously considering what to say next.

(_Well, if you apologize to the girl, you should do it right, Weasley_ . . .)

"So, Weasley, I ask you again, why are we here? What do you want from me? It's obviously _not_ friendship--"

"Actually, Daphne, that's exactly it." Ron said, without hesitation or stuttering.

Daphne narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"You were right, y'know? After you searched Malfoy's things, and after you've been . . . doing whatever it is you're doing because you need to deal with the other Slytherins. After all of fifth year, I should've let up on you. I didn't. _Aaaa-nd_," Ron said, "I'm sorry."

Ron looked at her intensely. "I'm sorry, Daphne."

Ron could see Daphne looking at him, her brain working out some sort of response.

"That's rather impressive. You said 'I'm sorry' two times in a row. Is that some sort of personal record?" Daphne smirked at him.

Ron smirked back.

"S'pose so. Does this mean that you and I are okay?" Ron held out his hand.

Daphne shook her head. Ron frowned at her.

(_What the bloody hell is it now?_)

"Weas-er, Ron," Daphne said, eyes shifting between the floor and Ron's face, "how do I, or we," she wriggled her hand between them, "how do we know this isn't just a thing for today? You know that I'll say or do things that'll set you off, and, well . . . you're not necessarily known for your tact—"

"Okay. Fair question." Ron said. He had just poured some of the warm milk in the pitcher onto the sugar and bread sitting in his bowl. Daphne did the same.

Swallowing a mouthful of the sweet treat, Ron started talking.

"It was the Patronus class."

"What?"

"Fifth year," Ron said. Daphne cocked her eyebrow. Ron continued on with his point; he didn't want to stop talking for fear of losing what he wanted to say, what he needed her to understand. "Remember, the DA meeting where we learned all about Patronuses? I think that was the first time I actually saw you as, well, _you_. Not as just a Slytherin or anything like that. But you were Daphne, the girl that needed a bit of help with her Patronus." Ron noted Daphne's embarrassed expression as she ate her own helping of bread and warm milk. "After that, I sort of noticed that I would be concerned with how you were doing. I mean, it was sometime after that class that I told Harry you needed help with the timing on your spells, especially your Shield Charms."

Ron sat back in his seat, taking another deep breath.

(_Show her you mean it, Weasley. Just trust her for once . . ._)

Ron swallowed before he continued on with what he was about to say.

"After the Ministry, I started having these odd reactions with my injuries."

"What do you mean 'odd'?" Daphne asked.

"Well, I'd have fits if someone touched me, and my body would sense things that weren't even around where I was. My Healers said it was part of some leftover memories, from the brain that attacked me—"

"Oh, so that's where you went the last part of summer . . . to Healers. Gotta admit, I was dead curious."

Ron nodded. "I'm actually still seeing them, but I've stopped having the reactions — well, so far, at least. And the nightmares—"

"You had nightmares? From the same brain?"

"Yeah. From what I could tell, the brain belonged to some Muggle-born Auror — a witch with the last name Winston. At least, that's what they kept saying in these nightmares…"

"They who?"

Ron paused. Looking back down into his bowl, he muttered, "Death Eaters."

"Gods . . ." Ron reckoned Daphne had turned a bit green.

"When you said that thing about You-Know-Who at dinner the day Harry arrived, well," Ron gestured to his head, "it set me off. The nightmares, lack of sleep, weird eating patterns . . . it all made me right grouchy." Ron glanced at Daphne, who was nodding, eyes staring past his head. Ron took in another breath, and continued to speak.

"The nightmares, thankfully, have slowed down quite a bit. But, I do have them, from time to time." Ron sighed. "I mean, you keep seeing these things happening, and you grow up hearing all the time about Death Eaters, blah, blah, blah . . .You-Know-Who, blah, blah, blah . . . And Slytherins — the whole lot of them—"

"Let me guess," Daphne said, "Blah, blah . . . 'All Slytherins are Death Eaters' . . . blah."

"Right in one."

Ron watched Daphne nod.

"So, where are you now with that?" she asked him.

"That's what I'm trying to say! I think I'd actually be upset if you got yourself hurt or something. I wouldn't feel like that if I _actually_ _thought_ you were a Death Eater, or some Junior-Death-Eater-in-training. I mean, you've actually been with us through some nasty shit, and you're still here. You're kinda one of us now. So, there you go."

Daphne moved her mouth, apparently in stunned silence. Looking at Ron, she could only nod for a brief moment. Then she spoke, "I think I'm actually touched, Ron."

"And I know I say really shitty things about you and you being a Slytherin sometimes, and I don't know why I can't stop myself from doing it. Maybe it's all just trying to get out of me through my mouth." Ron sat back, propping his head on his hand, his arm resting on the table.

"Like it's something that always been a big part of you, and it's kinda like a reflex . . . or something?" Daphne shrugged. "Maybe if you just let it all out, someday, you'll be able to move completely past it . . . probably?"

Ron nodded slightly. "Yeah, maybe."

Daphne paused for a few minutes. Taking a couple of long, slow bites of her meal, Ron watched as she breathed in a couple of times.

"Okay, so in the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you what Colin Creevey and I are planning, because, even if your Gryffindor sensibilities might not agree with it, it's just better if you know about it and understand why I'm doing this . . . thing."

When Ron wordlessly nodded for her to continue, Daphne reached into her bookbag, pulling out a number of rather large-sized magical moving pictures.

Ron's brow furrowed in confusion. "What's all this?"

"Insurance."

Ron took the photographs into his hands — and very nearly had a heart attack when he saw what they were all about.

"Y-you . . . you . . . _OH MY FUCKING MERLIN'S HAIRY TESTICLES, Y-YOU CAN'T BE BL-BlOODY FUCKING SERIOUS_?!"

He slammed the photos face-down on the table. He had only managed to see the top picture, but — _damn . . . _damndamndamn — he did _not, _absolutely _did_ _not,_ need to see anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to get the image out of his head.

"Gods, it's even worse with the moving," Ron said disgustedly. He had to slap his head several times.

(_It's never getting out, Weasley, unless you take your wand and dig it out of your head._)

(_Fuuuuck . . . Obliviate would work! Obliviate is your friend. Obliviate, obliviate, obliviate . . . _)

"It's called blackmail, Ron."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that after seeing _that_." Ron gestured at the photos lying facedown on the table. He felt like he was going to lose all of the meals that he had eaten throughout the day.

(_Oh, hell . . . I'm chucking up the entire bloody _week's _worth of meals!_)

"Creevey's sort of been my partner in this, and we both got a bit of money from it, which is how I was able to pay for the pranks that I used against Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad, and things that didn't look so . . . er, secondhand." Daphne spoke in very deliberate, steady, business-like tones. "Ron, I'm not too sure if you realize this or not, but Slytherins — or the _important_ Slytherins — really only care about a few things: appearances, both personal and economic, power and ambition. Anything that you can do to show you've got those things, you're in. I'm living proof of wholesale House rejection because, when I first got here, I didn't really exhibit much, particularly with me having no wealth and no power." Daphne looked to her right, her lips tight in a slight, rueful smile. "I don't think that they counted on me being pretty damn good at self-preservation, which is an extraordinarily Slytherin quality." She turned back to him.

"I've never had money, Ron. Unless it was a clothing stipend that I got from my caseworker, and that was when they'd actually get the funds that they could use for foster kids." Daphne stopped and scratched away at the table. "I needed to do something that would get me a lot of money really fast. And I didn't want to resort to dealing drugs or anything . . ."

"What's that?" Ron asked. His hands were over his eyes, as if trying to block out any further assault to his sight. He had opened two of his fingers and was peeking through the gap.

"Well, in the Muggle world, someti- . . . wait, that's, er, not really that important." Daphne held up her hand and shook her head quickly. "Ron, what I'm trying to say is that I was trying to get some money — hell, _any_ money really — I needed to do something big. Something drastic."

"How many times?" Ron asked, continuing to hide behind his hand.

Daphne sighed. "This will be my fourth time, if it succeeds, of course. Hopefully, because these are a couple of the biggest 'fish' in the school, it'll be my last time to do this here."

Ron stared at her in shocked horror. "What in the world do you do with the money?"

"I've opened an account in Gringotts. Well, my share's in there, at least. Creevey gets a cut, obviously. The amount of Galleons in there might be enough to pay for a couple of nicer robes that won't fall apart after a couple of weeks, and maybe two months of rent after I leave Hogwarts and get a job. Assuming someone will hire me, of course." Daphne chuckled in disbelief at her own comment.

Ron shook his head. Pointing at the back of the pile of pictures, Ron looked at Daphne with a mixture of emotions running all over his face. "This is really despicable, Daphne."

Daphne looked solemn. She nodded. "Yeah, I know."

"But, you somehow think what you're doing with these pictures will ensure your safety or something with the rest of the Slytherins?"

"Ron, you know well and good that Slytherins are cunning bastards. What they respond to are threats, cheating, and maintaining appearances. This is _pure_ Slytherin, plain and simple. In my House, it'll get results.

"It's also bloody illegal . . ."

"Given what you know about who's in that photograph, you should know that the last thing they'd want is to drag Magical Law Enforcement into their lives. Plus, Creevey's ingenious self found an Authentication Charm, which can verify that the image isn't doctored or manipulated. If they tried moving against us, the MLEs would also have to take them down too. Only one is of legal age, and the other one's going to be turning seventeen next summer, and there are still laws against the activities displayed in that picture on the wizarding legal books." Daphne snorted. "Stupid Puritanical wizarding lot!"

"You actually researched this?"

" 'Fraid so, Ron. The minor will stand to lose one of the bigger fortunes around, if his mother discovers this little secret and disowns — or murders — him," she muttered.

"Damn, Daphne. Just . . . damn." Ron ran his hand down his face. "I'm never getting on your bad side," he said after a few minutes.

"Does this change what we just talked about? With you and me trying this whole 'friendship' thing?" Daphne asked him.

To Ron's surprise, she sounded worried, anxious.

Here was this Slytherin girl sitting before him, who had done something bad, _really bad_. Daphne had just done something that should make him dislike her and never want to associate with her ever again.

But, Ron sat there, watching Daphne nervously pulling at her hair, her leg bouncing out of control, her teeth chewing at her lip and making herself bleed.

Seeing her visibly nervous about what he might say made Ron think through the situation a bit more.

"Fred and George practically blackmailed a Ministry employee in our fourth year."

Daphne froze. Her eyes widened, and she laughed in surprise. "You're kidding. Well, actually, it's . . . them, innit? It's not surprising, really."

Ron snickered in agreement. "They had made a bet with him at the Quidditch World Cup, he tricked them, and they found out he owed money to a bunch of other people. And goblins, too."

"_Merlin_!" Daphne exclaimed. "I bet the goblins weren't happy in the least with that."

Ron shook his head. "Nope. Ludo Bagman dug his own hole, though. I mean, thinking about this," Ron waved his hand over the pictures, "I can sort of — not completely, mind you — but sort of see why you could do this. You need protection. If you think this can get you that in your house . . ."

"I've also been doing Millicent Bulstrode's essays in three of her classes."

Ron just gawped at her. "You're kidding!"

Daphne shook her head. "I've actually been doing her Potions and Transfiguration essays for her since middle of first year, in order to keep her from joining sides with Parkinson whenever we'd fight."

Ron was confused. "You do her homework just so she'd stay out of a fight? She wouldn't even help you defend yourself?"

"Ron, I'd might as well let Parkinson _Avada_ _Kedavra_ me if I let Bulstrode 'help' me out. So long as Bulstrode's not aiming her fists into my face or trying to sit on me and flatten me out like a pancake, I'm fine with whatever Parkinson throws in my direction." Daphne said with determination.

Ron could only shake his head.

Daphne the Blackmailer.

Daphne the Briber.

Daphne the Slytherin Spy.

Ron not only felt sad that this was what she felt like she had to do to make it in Slytherin, but he was surprisingly understanding of Daphne's predicament.

(_Dammit to hell, Hermione! You were right._)

Daphne _was _like him, in a way. Desperate for money, tired of feeling left out because she was poorer than everyone else, probably fed up with her crap belongings . . .

Ron was lucky that he was surrounded by family and friends who didn't care that he had no money, who reassured him whenever he would feel self-conscious about his clothes, his things, his house, his entire _life._

A sudden, disturbing realization hit him.

Ron realized that, because she had been sorted into Slytherin, Daphne didn't have _any _of that.

And, worse, she was surrounded by other students either completely indifferent to her or who wanted to make her suffer.

Ron's unexpected awareness of Daphne's situation — and their fundamental similarities — caused him to look at her with new eyes.

He lifted his head up, meeting her gaze.

"Daphne?"

"Ron?" she responded.

"Okay, I might not like the methods, but," Ron spoke, shaking his head, "but I do sort understand where you're coming from." He gave her a serious look.

"But, man . . . don't think I _even_ approve of this! Maybe part of me is just kind of relieved that your whole plan really _doesn't_ involve anything with Harry. Or, I dunno, I'm a poor bloke myself, and who knows what I would do if I were in your shoes . . . "

"Ron, I want to make it clear to you. This one isn't about the money—"

Ron cocked his eyebrow and crossed his arms.

"—okay, it's not _entirely_ about the money," Daphne acquiesced. "Mostly, it's because I've landed myself on the wrong end of Slytherin House, and those that want to can take their aggressions on Harry out on me." Daphne slouched in her chair, her brown eyes turning upwards toward the large vaulted ceiling of the kitchen. Ron reckoned she looked really and truly exhausted.

It was probably late already, past curfew for certain. And yet, Ron wasn't quite ready to leave yet.

He took a long sip of his still-warm hot chocolate.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, don't they?" Ron said after swallowing the sweet and creamy drink.

Daphne had taken a swig herself. "I suppose they do."

Running his finger along the rim of the glass, Ron looked one more time at the Slytherin girl. He raised his glass into the air between them.

Daphne just regarded him dumbly.

"Oh, come on, Daf', " Ron said in utter astonishment. "Don't tell me you've never toasted to something before?"

"What in the world are we toasting, Ron?"

"How about new friendships? New understandings?"

Once again, Daphne couldn't say anything; Ron saw her gulp.

He also saw her eyes looking at him. They seemed slightly shinier than normal.

"O-okay," Daphne said, her voice sounding thick and heavy. "To new friendships."

Giving Ron a quick smile, Daphne let her mug meet his with a gentle tink.

* * *

Harry had just completed a near all-night session to catch up on his schoolwork, when the portrait door opened and a yawning, stretching Ron came stumbling in.

"Godric, you take forbloody_-ever_ to apologize, Weasley." Harry smirked and leaned back in his seat.

Ron threw a couch pillow at Harry's head. "Oh, stuff it, you prat!"

Harry chuckled as he caught the pillow. "Things go all right, then?"

Ron nodded and stretched out on the couch. "Yeah. I think Daphne and I reached an understanding." The redhead rubbed his eyes tiredly. "It's funny, y'know? I never would've thought that I'd put that much effort into an apology to a Slytherin."

Harry snorted in amusement. "It's called personal growth, Ron."

Ron gave his best friend the two-finger salute.

"I'm serious, Harry. I found out a lot about our 'Little Miss Daffy'. Good and bad, too. Know what?"

Harry shrugged.

"The bad stuff is _bad_, no doubt." Ron lifted his eyebrows and shuddered, as if remembering a particular moment. "But it doesn't matter. It didn't stop me from seeing her as Daphne. I mean, she's an actual person, and she's got her good qualities . . . and a whole mess of issues. But, I somehow definitely think that you, me, and Hermione would be sad if something happened to her."

Harry considered his friend carefully.

"You know what I think, Ron?"

Ron shrugged.

"I think that you've felt that way about Daphne before this week, but it took your heart awhile to catch up with your head."

Ron looked at him in confusion, wiggling his palms in front of him like he was refusing something.

"Harry, I'm not sure where you're getting all this 'heart' business, but it's not like that . . . "

Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I _know_ that, you pillock. What I mean is, I think you've wanted to feel like you and Daphne were friends, and actually, I think you did. It's just that, well . . . these dreams and the other stuff kept getting in the way."

Ron looked at the fireplace, but nodded slightly at this observation.

"And," Harry continued, "I think it is comfortable for you to _think_ of Slytherins — and therefore, Daphne — as untrustworthy, sneaky gits. That's what you've always known and accepted."

Harry saw Ron make eye contact with him. Ron gave a small chuckle.

"I actually said something similar to Daphne today. Like, I said what I said because it's what I've known and my brain's trying to get it all out of my system." Ron smiled and sighed. "I s'pose things are changing, aren't they?"

Harry smiled at his friend. "Yeah."

Ron turned back to look at Harry. Swallowing and blinking twice, Ron spoke assertively to his best friend, "So Harry, I don't think it's a good idea to ask her to spy on Malfoy anymore."

Harry looked at him flabbergasted.

"B-but, she offered! She wants to know as badly as we do . . . "

Ron looked at the floor, but his voice came out strong and firm. "She doesn't want to tell us no. Actually," Ron said, looking directly at Harry, "I have a feeling she doesn't want to tell you no."

Harry brow creased. "What the hell do you mean?"

Ron shook his head. "Think about it, all right? She been alone for so long. I don't mean just here at Hogwarts, but in her life as well. Just as alone as you, Harry." Ron gestured at him. "No parents, no family . . . and then she comes here, and all she knows is dirty deeds, bribery, blackmail—"

"Wait, what do you mean 'blackmail'?"

Ron shook his head. "You don't want to know." Harry held his hands up, giving in to continued ignorance.

Ron let out another big breath. "Seriously, Harry. Right now, she's surrounded by a bunch of pure-blood-obsessed maniacs and the only thing she knows is how to keep surviving one day to the next. Harry, and I'm one-hundred percent for real about this, but if I could I'd have her crash right here in our common room, I would. Just so those snaky, slimy gits in Slytherin won't be able to hex her."

Harry couldn't believe he was actually sitting across from Ron Weasley. His best friend.

His best friend who, up until very recently, hated all things Slytherin.

"Do you really think it's getting bad for her there?"

Ron considered this. "Harry, she's been doing things over the past four or five years to protect herself from Parkinson in the girls' dormitory. Before last year, the only thing Malfoy would harass her about was her being poor. Like me. Now," Ron looked at him, "it's different, innit? Malfoy could be the current up-and-coming Death Eater star, and Daphne joined us in the fight that sent Malfoy's Death-Eater Dad to Azkaban. She would be a prime person for him and his gang to take their anger out on."

Harry ruffled his hair.

(_Crap!_)

(_When the hell did Ron become so observant and thoughtful?_)

"When the hell did you become so observant and thoughtful?" Harry couldn't help but ask his redheaded mate, who proceeded to flip him the bird.

"I'm serious, Harry. We could actually be _real_ _friends_ for Daphne. No conditions, no requirements. We could just be there for her and she could be there for us."

Ron's eyes were lit up with a determination that Harry hadn't seen in them before. Despite his own desire to see Malfoy's plans unravel, he had to admit witnessing Ron getting excited, even enthusiastic about anything other than Quidditch or the latest trio mystery was rather miraculous in and of itself.

"Ron, can I ask you something, and promise you won't get annoyed?" Harry began cautiously.

"Yeah . . . shoot."

"Why is this so important to you? Not that I don't think it not a valiant effort or anything, but…well, honestly, it doesn't sound like you, Ron."

"What? I can't be caring and compassionate?"

"No, it's just that . . . well . . . you're being so _sympathetic_ towards Daphne. I know you just got back from whatever you decided to do for your apology . . . "

Ron sat for a few moments, staring right into the fire. "Harry, honestly? I can't really explain it. It just sorta clicked tonight, okay? When Daphne was talking about her money situation, and how she had none and what it was like living with the rest of the Slytherins, I . . . well, it got to me." Ron looked back up at Harry. "My family's poor and I sometimes go all barmy because of it. But I've got friends, particularly two very stubborn, but amazing best friends that are always around to snap me out of it.

"I'm lucky, Harry, because I have you and Hermione here. Daphne doesn't. And she deserves that chance, y'know. She should have friends. I mean, she's not perfect. But hey, neither are we."

Harry fell backwards into his chair, completely and utterly stunned as he listened to Ron the Advocate for Daphne Greengrass . . . Ron, the Armchair Psychologist.

Ron's own words stuck in his head

("_We could actually be _real friends_ for Daphne._")

And, of course, Harry's mind wouldn't let him forget Dumbledore's very personal observations after their first lesson.

(" . . . _those who lead_ . . . _can sometimes reduce their soldiers and their allies to something less than human _. . .")

"Ron," Harry said, with a slight chuckle, "you know who you sound like?"

Ron merely shrugged.

"Dumbledore." Harry smiled as he saw Ron's skepticism all over his face. "No, I'm serious. After we jumped out of that Pensieve, he warned me about making requests of Daphne." Harry stopped and raised an eyebrow, thinking. "I guess, maybe, I get a tiny," Harry squinted through a small space between his thumb and index finger, "a wee bit obsessive with things—"

Ron just stared at him.

"Seriously, Harry. A little?"

"Fine. A _lot_ obsessive. Better?"

"Well, at least now you're being honest with yourself."

Harry snorted, and Ron chuckled. Soon they were both laughing with each other.

"Oh, bloody hell," Ron yawned, while rubbing his eyes, "I'm beat. Going up?"

Harry looked at his parchment for Snape's class. Rubbing away at his _own _eyes, Harry closed his textbook.

"Yeah, I think I'm done — I can whip out a quick conclusion or something at breakfast, which," he looked at his watch, "Merlin – On – A – _Biscuit_, is in almost five hours!" Harry said with a heavy sigh.

Packing up his books and following Ron, Harry slogged up the stairs toward their dormitory.


	13. Chapter 12: A Snake Cornered

**A/N: **This chapter makes non-explicit references to M/M sexuality and contains strong language. Thanks to stella8h8chang for all your help with this chapter.

Minor Canon Character makes an appearance, Daphne's plan comes to fruition, and Ron makes a mistake.

* * *

**Chapter 12: A Snake Cornered**

(_This is utter _bullshit!)

(_Fucking Parkinson _. . . _that fucking _twit_ Tracey Davis _. . .)

(_Bulstrode'd better shit or get off the pot, or else I'm gonna to ram my wand right up __her—_)

"Oi! Uh . . . Greengrass, isn't it?"

Daphne spun around sharply at the unfamiliar voice. A bloke with Ravenclaw robes draped over his tallish, slender body was holding onto a parchment roll. He was shaking his shaggy, dark hair out of his face.

"Er, this fell out of your bag."

Daphne stomped over to him and grabbed the parchment out of his hand.

"Merlin! You're welcome," he said indignantly.

"I never thanked you."

"I realize that. I was sort of hinting—"

"Well, thanks, er . . ." Daphne shook her head and creased her brow, looking at him for a clue as to his name.

"Corner. Michael Corner. We were in the DA last year — hey! What happened to your face?"

Daphne reached up, touching her forehead . . . and winced.

"Not just your forehead. There's a huge bruise on your cheek," Michael ran his hand down his own face, indicating to Daphne where the contusion must have been.

"'S just a bit of rough-and-tumble this morning. You should see the other girls," Daphne smirked.

"Were they Slytherins, too?"

"Er, yeah, they were." Daphne closed her eyes, getting annoyed. This was the last thing she wanted to talk about; rehashing the whole thing would just make her continue to feel like shit. "Look, do you need something? I'm running late—"

"I, um . . . I do have something to ask you, Greengrass. You're in Advanced Arithmancy with me, right?"

"Yeah . . . oh yeah! I _do_ remember you. You sit in the middle row, left side of the room . . . " She looked at him suspiciously. "Do you want something?"

Sometimes, that question rolled out of Daphne, almost like it was a habit.

One made speculations like that if one was in the business of coercion and bribery _and_ lived in an environment where such things could occur on any given day.

Michael Corner shuffled his feet a bit, looking like he was considering what to say. "Well, actually, yeah. I heard that you were pretty decent with generalized charting schemes. Not just the charts that we do for individuals, but the stuff we've worked on about time and future prognostication . . ."

"I'd say I'm better than decent, actually. Only Granger is better." Daphne saw him snigger.

"Well, at least you're modest." Michael grinned and let out a small sigh, "I ask because I kind of need some help with it, if you're available."

"Aren't you a Ravenclaw? Aren't you supposed to be, like naturally brilliant, or something?"

"Aren't you a Slytherin? Aren't you supposed to hate Gryffindors and get a Dark Mark or something?" he asked, with far more attitude than Daphne liked.

The Slytherin narrowed her eyes and stalked forward toward Michael, not caring that he was at least a good half-foot taller than she. "What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean, Corner?"

She was already crabby from the lack of sleep and from the stupid little skirmish in the Slytherin girls' dormitory that happened just before she had been able to slip down to breakfast.

Now she had to deal with this idiot?

"What that means, Greengrass, is that we can't go around tossing about assumptions anymore. The fact _is_," he crossed his arms rather smugly, but in a way meant to show his amusement, "is that I've spotted you around being friendly with some Gryffindors, and that there are those pesky rumors of dissent going on in Slytherin House, and," he chuckled lightly and gestured toward Daphne's face, "it's starting to look a bit more factual from where I'm standing. I think this means that anything we've ever thought about other houses is pretty much a moot point these days."

Her eyes still in little slits, Daphne backed away from Michael.

"But, you are right, of course. I _am_ naturally smart." Michael winked at her. "Not all assumptions are wrong."

Daphne could feel the tension in her face easing away. "Okay, Mr. Smarty-Pants. When can you meet up in the library?"

Michael rubbed at his chin, apparently thinking about an answer. "I've got nothing going on Thursday, after afternoon Herbology. I mean, Vector said we'll be on this generalized charting unit for a month or so. Which," he said, shaking his head in frustration, "completely sucks for me. It's like I'm reading Gobbledegook."

"I've always thought things I don't understand would sound like Mermish to me, personally. Annoyingly screechy." Daphne said.

(_The hell, Greengrass? You make absolutely _no_ bloody sense sometimes._)

"Er, uh . . . okay," Michael said uncertainly. He clearly had no idea what she had meant either, and Daphne successfully restrained herself from smacking her own face in humiliation. "So, say we meet half past three?"

Daphne regarded him for a moment. Finally, she nodded. "Three-thirty, then. Thursday. In the Library." She turned around quickly, on her heels, and walked away.

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Michael Corner, watching her. He gave her a grin and a swift little wave as he departed to his own classes.

* * *

"Did you guys hear?" Lavender Brown crouched over Ron and Hermione. Ron couldn't help noticing Lavender's ample cleavage as it plopped directly into his line of sight.

"No, Lavender. What's going on?" Ron heard the carefully measured tone of Hermione's voice. Pulling his eyes away from the momentary distraction, Ron saw that Hermione was staring him down.

(_Shit!_)

"Well, apparently there was some sort of fight with the Slytherin girls this morning. Pansy Parkinson tried to hit Daphne Greengrass with a Bludgeoning Hex, but Greengrass hit her with _Furnunculus_ and a Furry Face Hex! Tracey Davis also ganged up on Greengrass too, but she somehow avoided it and hit her with an Impediment Jinx."

"Wait! Is Daphne alright?" Hermione asked in a hushed voice. Harry was also leaning forward, anticipating an answer. Ron was holding his breath anxiously. He snapped around to the Slytherin table behind him.

Exhaling in relief, he saw Daphne sitting in her typical spot, by herself, at the farthest end of the Slytherin table. He could see discoloration on her forehead and cheek, and darkening around her eye.

Even from where he was sitting, Ron could also see the other Slytherins shoveling food into their mouths, glaring at Daphne with murderous expressions.

"Parkinson's been up in the Hospital Wing this whole morning. According to _several _sources, her face resembles a cat's buttocks and her arms and legs are covered with huge boils." Lavender pursed her lips together, practically smiling for being the source for such juicy gossip. She skipped back to her seat next to Seamus and Parvati Patil.

Harry stood up from his seat; it was clear he was on his way to see to Daphne.

"_Harry_! What do you think you're doing?" Hermione whispered severely, "you'll draw more attention to her if you go over there."

"Hermione, we can't just ignore her! Look at her. She's alone over there, and the Slytherins look like they're ready to _Crucio_ her into oblivion."

"We're not going to ignore her, Harry. We'll meet up with her later, okay?"

Ron took this opportunity to throw in his own two cents _and _smooth things over with the other Gryffindor prefect. "Mate, I think Hermione's spot on. I know that her face looks bad — Daphne's got some huge bruises, and she may have the start of a nasty shiner too. Why don't we slip her a note and try to meet up with her in the kitchens later on tonight or tomorrow?"

"_Well_!" Hermione sneered at him. "Don't you seem to be the _observant_ one today?" Ron recoiled internally as he watched Hermione violently swing her bookbag over her shoulder, very nearly giving him a black eye of his own. "Do let me know if you _see_ anything else _interesting_!" Hermione turned around and marched out of the Great Hall, bushy hair whipping around furiously and out-of-control.

Ron finally let out a loud, long groan and banged his head on the table.

"Dammit. Dammit. _Dammit_!" Bang. Bang. Bang.

Harry looked completely lost. "What was that—"

Ron held up an index finger, quieting Harry. Keeping his eyes shut and head down, Ron spoke, "Harry, we're blokes, right?"

"Well, last time I checked _me _this morning, sure," Harry said, nodding.

"When we're hungry, we eat, right?"

"Yeah—"

"When we're tired, we sleep, correct?"

"Um, Ron?" Harry cocked his eyebrow.

"And when a bird thrusts her chest in our faces, we look, yeah?" Ron raised his head, opening one eye to look at Harry. He could hear the fearful note in his own voice.

"She saw you checking out Lavender, huh?"

"So you saw them too!" Ron's eyes opened wide and he pointed at Harry, snapping his fingers. "I mean, what the hell? When they're, like," Ron cupped his hands practically half-a-foot in front of his chest, "_y'know _. . . they're just hanging right there . . . what red-blooded male _isn't _going to stop and take notice? I mean, you saw them too, yeah?"

Harry opened his mouth, looking to his left, where Ginny was sitting. He paused, then spoke back to Ron. "I, er . . ." Harry looked back at Ginny, who, Ron noticed, had suddenly become very interested in the conversation. "I really didn't have a chance to look, Ron. I mean there's so much more to girls, mate, _much_ more than the physical stuff, y'know?"

Ron's mouth fell open, stunned and annoyed that his own friend wouldn't even verbally acknowledge the most simple of truths about sixteen-year-old blokes.

(_Bloody traitor!_)

Ginny put her hand next to Harry's. "You know, it's so nice to actually have proof that _some_ men can be mature around a woman. That not all of them are perverts with raging hormones!" Harry looked oddly smug after she said this. Ron just glared at his sister, who was giving him a _brilliant_ combination of a look that was both angry and condescending.

"Butt out, Ginny!'

"Don't be bossing me around, Ronald! I might be the only female that Hermione will even listen to, so it's better for you to be nice to me. I _might_," Ginny said as she narrowed her eyes, "help you out, if you behave yourself."

"Hey, Weasley!" Ron looked down his side of the table, and saw the source of the thick, Irish brogue. Seamus was leaning forward, grinning from ear to ear. "Can' help it if me gal is buxom, eh? Ye should tell Hermione she should appreciate a bloke who _does _notice a fine lass. Means they've got taste, ya know?"

Ron beat his forehead with the heels of his hands, shaking his head back and forth. "Seriously, Seamus. Not helping. Not helping at all."

* * *

She could think of nothing _more _fabulously exciting than waiting in the empty Transfiguration classroom.

Second to watching paint dry. . . .

Or Filch mopping up a pile of sick . . .

But, after almost being caught unawares this morning, Daphne realized that the time had come to put her Plan B into effect. The procedure was the same as the other times she had done this: owls to her two-or-more marks, with messages to all of them to meet each other in the 'blank' Classroom on the 'blank' floor and/or Astronomy Tower, Creevey anonymous and safe in his dormitory with the spare pictures or other evidence hidden away in his trunk, and her — the dark, little snake — lying in wait for her prey.

She always tried to gather _something _on the richer individuals who attended Hogwarts. Ironically enough, most of her victims (_err_ . . . opportunities_, Greengrass_) were from her own House. Which was good, because Slytherins would do anything to protect their image.

She hated trying this shit on Gryffindors, which she had done only once. The dumbfucks would go all _noble_ on her and reveal their deepest, darkest secret to whomever would listen, thus defeating Daphne's scheme.

(_Courageous, uncooperative little dickheads!_)

By the end of today, she would have two of the wealthier students — one with a lot of power and influence in Slytherin — under her control. Although, after confiding her plan to Ron, somehow, the satisfaction she usually derived from a blackmail well done was missing this time.

Daphne chewed on her lip while waiting for the door to open so she could get on with this. It wasn't fair, this newish feeling of compunction that was slowly rising in her chest. The stupid, redheaded Gryffindor did this to her, somehow. She didn't know if he'd hit her with some sort of Conscience Jinx — maybe taught to him by Hermione — or if what Harry said was true; that their 'Gryffindor-ness' was rubbing off on her (_and once again _. . . _ew_). Daphne felt shaky, and she hadn't been this nervous in a long while.

Daphne folded and unfolded the note she had received from Ron, Harry and Hermione earlier today. Try as she might, she couldn't stop smiling over their concern for her:

**_"Daphne — We heard. Can you meet with the three of us tonight at the kitchen?"_**

It was a different feeling — but a good one, as Daphne had concluded — this having friends because they actually chose to be her friends. No transactions or contracts necessary. They were concerned for her. Period. End of story. As flabbergasted as Daphne was about the turn of events over the past couple of days, she couldn't help feel that choosing to study with Hermione, choosing to talk to Harry, and then choosing to join the DA had been the right choices after all. Almost as soon as she had received the note, Daphne merely sent them a note back, telling them she couldn't meet with them tonight, but maybe tomorrow she'd have an opportunity to see them.

And, it felt so different, these three Gryffindors, giving her their time and their kindness the more they got to know her. So different from Slytherin, where she couldn't tell anyone her own doubts about pure-blood superiority even as she verbalized support of it, where she couldn't talk about Cedric's death, where she couldn't tell anyone anything about what it was like growing up without a family . . .

Now, sitting in this classroom, she could feel her palms growing ever so sweaty and wet. Not since meeting with her very first mark had she been this nervous. She wasn't sure if it was because of the talk with Ron or because of—

"Eddie? Where are you?"

(_Showtime, Greengrass _. . .)

"Blaise? Over here."

Daphne watched as the two fellows met in the middle of the classroom.

"Okay, so spill it!" The seventh-year Ravenclaw demanded.

Zabini was obviously confused. "I do believe you're the one who owled me . . ."

"Blaise, why the hell would I owl you when we have your Two-Way Mirrors—"

"_Hem, hem_!" Daphne coughed, causing both teenage boys to stop talking and look directly at her.

Both Zabini and Eddie Carmichael appeared as if they had just been told they would be taking their N.E.W.T.S right then. Daphne reckoned that, even if it was too dark to see properly, Zabini had somehow lost all the color in his dark and handsome face. She heard a sharp intake of breath from where she knew he was standing.

"_Gr-greeng-g-rass_?" Eddie Carmichael stuttered breathlessly.

Daphne could only nod.

"Eddie Carmichael, pleased to meet you. _Blaise_," Daphne drawled, turning her attention to the boy even though he was not responding to her. "We've . . . been intimately acquainted," she said, a one-sided smirk growing on her face.

She noted Zabini rearranging his expression from shock to its normal arrogant appearance.

"Well, _Blaise_," Daphne intoned once again. "We should really get at why I asked you both to meet up in this classroom tonight. Now, Blaise, darling," she adopted a grating tone of smug familiarity with the Slytherin boy. "We've known each other for these past five years, correct?"

Zabini remained silent.

"And, you and I, well . . . let's just say we have a _complicated_ history."

More silence . . .

"So, imagine _my_ surprise when I stumbled upon this little photo collection and made a most _startling _discovery—"

With a quick flick of her wrist, Daphne Levitated a series of four wizard pictures, hanging in midair in front of Blaise Zabini.

Daphne watched as Blaise stepped forward. She could see his face as he first went about merely examining the pictures, to wide-eyed horror as comprehension dawned upon him.

"No . . ." he breathed, tonelessly.

"Oh, I assure you, most definitely yes, Blaise." Daphne stepped forward next to the Slytherin, making sure Eddie Carmichael stayed standing in place. "I mean, really, I know how much you enjoy this particular—" she started, gesturing to the top right photograph, "activity, as I have done this myself with you. But, Merlin have mercy on me! You do seem to be enjoying whatever it is Eddie is doing to you. Especially," she said, pausing, "right about . . . _here_!"

She swirled her wand tip over the image, little sparks lighting up the picture during a particularly _enthusiastic_ moment between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw.

"See, that's the amazing thing about wizard pictures. You think at first 'Nah, they couldn't be doing that . . .' but then, sure enough, once the moving starts—" she swirled her wand with a flourish, hoping desperately neither Zabini or Eddie could sense the emptiness, the hollow tone of her own voice.

Zabini had been frozen still the entire time. Suddenly, he broke free of whatever trance he had been in and grabbed at the top right picture. Holding it up closely to his face, he made to rip it apart.

"Go ahead, Blaise. Feel free to take it out on the not-so-innocent picture. I have plenty more, hidden away. All under a neat little Authentication Charm too. "

"You. Fucking. _Bitch_—"

"Actually, Blaise, this is your lucky day!" Daphne spoke up, first to Blaise, then turning to Eddie Carmichael, who looked like he was trying to sneak out of the classroom. "_STOP_, Carmichael! This very much concerns _you_, too." Daphne watched as Zabini shot Eddie a contemptible look. The Slytherin boy rounded on her.

"Go to hell, Greengrass!" Zabini stalked menacingly toward Daphne.

"Blaise, don't," Eddie ran over to hold him back. Daphne thrust her wand between herself and the advancing boy.

"You so much as _touch_ me and these pictures go directly to the MLEs, who'll go after you and Eddie under the very Draconian Wizarding Decency Statutes. You'll quickly realize how intolerant our current laws are about 'alternative lifestyles', particularly with a grown-up wizard who is in a relationship with a teenager . . . such as your-" she poked her wand into Zabini's chest, "-self. Additionally," Daphne said, swirling the tip of her wand at Zabini, "I think you'd want to keep the MLEs far, far away from your family as much as possible. There's no telling what they'll dig up on your mother."

"And what about slaggy little bints who engage in blackmail?" Zabini spat out. "I'll tell them all about this little scheme."

Daphne shrugged. "Sure, I wouldn't mind a bit of community service for 6 months to a year. Maybe they'll give me a small fine, and I'll have to apologize to you and Carmichael. I mean, this is the first time I've ever had to be put in this position, _Blaise_, and, really, after the harassment I've been enduring from Malfoy — whose father is in Azkaban because he threw his lot in with Voldemort — and the girls in my dormitory, and, oh _yeah_, I _did_ go off with Harry Potter to fight Death Eaters in the Ministry . . ." Daphne ticked off each factor that weighed positively in her favor, letting her voice trail off with a small, smug smile.

Zabini turned around, shaking his head. Eddie put his arm around him, whispering to him so low Daphne couldn't make out what they were saying.

She could see Eddie rubbing Zabini's back in small circles, grasping the Slytherin's shoulder in a quick, one-arm embrace.

Daphne felt the guilt bubbling away in her empty stomach. Once again, she crushed it down as far and as deep as it could go. She needed to power through this, if the plan was going to work.

A few moments passed, and Zabini and Eddie turned around to face her.

"What do you propose to make these," Zabini gestured to the pictures, still hanging in midair, "all go away?"

"Blaise, you, right now, are _the_ most influential Slytherin in our house. Malfoy's power seems to be dwindling daily. Slughorn won't have anything to do with him, and that bumbly bastard constantly tries to crawl up _your_ arse because he knows you're an up-and-coming star.

"So, my dear Blaise, for all intents and purposes now, you _are _Slytherin, this year."

"I'm waiting, Greengrass. What do you want?" Zabini tapped his foot, body angled toward Eddie's, who still had his arm around the Slytherin, grasping his shoulder blade tightly.

"What I would like, Blaise, is protection. Actual, verbal confirmation that I'm 'hands off,' with the threat of possible physical retaliation if anyone decides to touch me. That means Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, and, apparently Davis. The little twat turned on me today too." Daphne watched as Zabini's expression darkened, and his eyes became angry.

"Do you _want_ me to enlighten you about why everyone hates you here? You're a _fucking_ traitor!" Zabini yelled at her, throwing his arms wide. "You act like this is all a big surprise to you, all this hostility in our house, but what do you expect when you decide to hitch a ride on Potter's coattails? You turned your back on us—"

"_Newsflash_, Zabini! Slytherin _never_ had my back, thank you very much. Malfoy made sure of that our first year, right after the sorting! You never had problems. You fit in just fine. You have money. You knew who your own parents were . . ." Daphne stopped and took a deep breath, shutting her eyes. Zabini, however, wasn't finished with her.

"You never tried to get in with us, you stupid girl! I'll bet you spent the last few years simpering in your bed, braiding your hair and waiting for Potter to finally notice you. Now, you're following him around, flaunting your tits at him, desperate for him to notice you. Like he'll ever want to touch shit like you." Zabini stood up straighter, smirking. "Or maybe it's that dirty pauper Weasley? Maybe he's the one you want to touch you with his rough, poor-smelling hands—"

"That's _rich_, coming from someone who _did _touch me on a regular basis!" Daphne shouted right back. "Plus, you're the pathetic would-be suitor to Eloise Midgen. I mean, _come on_, Zabini! She's not even pure-blood; she's a cleaned-up, half-blood tart with a bit of money! You won't even _admit _to yourself that me, Eloise, and, beg your pardon Eddie, your current homosexual relationship makes _you _a blood-traitor. You're practically _screaming_ teenage rebellion at your mum, for whatever reason. You may act like Midgen is your sole path to that fortune that's just waiting for you, but at the end of the day, you still see her as beneath you . . . and Mummy will be _most_ _displeased_." Daphne spat back, letting the last phrase slide off her tongue as if the words were covered in oil.

She noticed, as soon as she brought up Eloise's name, Eddie visibly recoiled, pulling his arm away from Zabini.

It was clear to Daphne _exactly_ what Eddie thought of Zabini's relationship with the Hufflepuff. But, despite this observation, Daphne had to continue on to the next part of her request.

The part that _didn't_ involve Zabini, necessarily . . .

"Carmichael," she said, looking at the Ravenclaw straight into his eyes. "Head Boy. From a well-to-do old wizarding family. You've got popularity, money, good looks, and your pick of jobs come June." Daphne walked around him. "What I would like from you, if you're willing, that is, is only a small, _mere_ fraction of that monthly allowance I know you receive from your family."

Eddie rubbed his eyes. Weariness weighed heavily in his voice when finally responded to Daphne.

"How much do you need, Greengrass?"

Daphne shook her head, twittering like she was calculating on the spot approximately how much she needed. "Let's see . . . probably 650 Galleons should do it." Daphne looked at Eddie, whose jaw had dropped to the floor.

"Mother of . . . I . . . you're not _serious_? 650, Greengrass? _650 Galleons_? That's bloody _extortion_!" Eddie wiped at the corners of his mouth, scratching vigorously at this head.

"The Ministry only considers it Grand Extortion if it's equal to or greater than One-Thousand Galleons, Eddie. So . . . 650 Galleons, that would be . . . 160 Galleons for three months, 170 for the final month." The way she sped through the division of money, it was quite obvious that she had had this all planned out.

Daphne continued on. "That's all I need from you, Eddie. Nothing more. These pictures won't see the light of day if you make good on those payments. And don't tell me you can't make good on that. You're the heir of Constance Carmichael's cleaning product line empire. I wouldn't be surprised if you could buy and sell Zabini even."

Eddie thought for a moment. "How do I trust that you won't just go ahead and show these pictures, Greengrass? I mean, who wouldn't want to pass up an opportunity like that. You get to be the center of attention, possibly get some publicity out of the thing. I mean, when you blackmail some one—"

"Carmichael, the money is so I can support myself once I get out of here. It's all I need, okay? The biggest role in this setup is Zabini's, when he vows to protect me in Slytherin until we graduate. I have no other beef with you. But I'm trying to survive the next two years with all my body parts intact."

She turned toward Zabini, addressing him directly. "I tried making a go of it in Slytherin, Blaise. I bought into all this 'pure-blood' this and 'Mudblood' that." Daphne noticed Eddie Carmichael visibly flinched when she said 'the M word'. "I can't follow through with all the ideals the Slytherins believe in. Not after—" Daphne caught herself as she almost mentioned Cedric Diggory's death. Fingering the smooth surface of her wand, Daphne regained her composure. "I just — I can't stay out of this fight, but I can't fight with _them _. . . I can't fight with Malfoy and his gang. I can't do it," Daphne said, almost speaking just to herself. "I have to be free to be me. But I don't want to have to keep looking over my shoulder."

Blaise grunted derisively. Daphne's eyes shifted between him and Eddie. "Whatever. Fine, Greengrass. You win," Blaise mumbled.

Eddie nodded. "Deal, then. I'll get you the first 160 Galleons by the end of this week." He had his hands on his hips and his chin jutted out determinedly. Slowly, Eddie walked toward her.

The closer he got to her, the harder it got for Daphne to look at him.

"If you turn on us, Daphne," Eddie spoke in an even, steady tone, "I'll make sure you regret this."

Daphne nodded. "Understood. Eddie?"

"What?"

"This . . . all th-this is about is protection f-for me, okay?" The shaking, the tremors Daphne had tried desperately to control finally came out in her voice as she spoke to Eddie. "It's not about you or wh-what the both of you are doing together—"

Eddie shook his head and laughed in disbelief. "You just made it about us, you idiot. Now, get the fuck out of here and leave us alone."

With one more flick of her wrist, she collected the pictures hanging in mid-air, stuffing them back into her bag. Meeting the other boys' eyes, Daphne gave one more final nod, turned and walked out of the classroom.

Quickly finding the nearest girls' restroom, Daphne pushed open the door, entered the closest stall, and proceeded to vomit up what little she had eaten.

* * *

"_Hermione_! For the love of Godric-Bloody-Gryffindor!" Despite his long, skinny legs, Ron was having plenty of difficulty catching up with Hermione as she completed her patrols of the third floor.

When Hermione wanted something, by Merlin, she got it!

If that meant she was going to avoid all things tall, pale and Weasley, it would happen if it killed her . . . _or_ Ron.

"Can't . . . you . . . _lemme'splain_?" Ron panted. He was out of breath now, having followed the Marauder's Map down several flights of stairs toward Hermione.

He couldn't help smiling when she finally stopped near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom door. His smile faded when she turned around, her brown eyes staring him down.

"What - do - you_ -_ _want_? _Ronald_?"

(_Crap. How can I talk to her when her nostrils are flaring like that?_)

"Okay, Hermione . . . if I start talking, you won't haul me off and hit me or anything, will you?"

Hermione's eyes tapered to thin little slits. Crossing her arms, Hermione nodded. "Fine. Talk."

"All right. So, I need to . . . er, that is, you should know . . . Dammit! Okay, this is harder than I thought it would be." Ron said, running his hand through his hair.

He hated talking about feelings and stuff. With Flora, it was different. Flora let him go on and on. She never reacted to anything he said, whether it was stupid, or profound . . . or stupidly profound. She just listened to him.

Well, she was his Emotional Healer; it's what she's paid to do. But, it was still nice.

Now, of course, he was talking to Hermione, who might just hex his prick off if he didn't say the right thing at this moment.

"I don't give a rat's arse about Lavender's chest, Hermione."

(_Well, there goes 'Little Ronnie'. Goodbye, manhood!_)

"Well, _that's _just great, Ron! Would you like a _treat_ or something for having such impeccable taste? Maybe a _biscuit _for good behavior?"

Ron groaned.

(_Please, Brain. Work for me today. That's all I ask_ . . .)

With that, Ron said the first thing that popped into his head. "What are we, Hermione?"

"What do you mean, 'what are we'? We're Ron and Hermione." She raised one eyebrow.

(_Okay _. . . _go with this _. . . _this'll be good_ . . .)

"Er, sure, we're that, but, I mean, to each other. What are we to each other?" Ron chanced stepping closer to her.

Hermione looked at him and opened her mouth, about to speak.

But, her brow creased and she caught her tongue between her teeth. Hermione tilted her head to one side and shut her mouth. Ron guessed she looked a bit confused.

"Um, well . . . Ron . . ."

"It's not something we've really put out there, is it? I mean, I've thought there's something there. I could've _sworn_ there was something there. But something's always happened before—"

"Right, no," Hermione said, interrupting Ron, "no, I know what you're trying to say. And, I do agree with you. We really haven't _talked _about . . . er, _that_." Hermione's face suddenly darkened. "You're about to make some point that it was _okay_ for you to gawp at Lavender's chest because we haven't defined what 'we' are, aren't you?"

"Naw . . . don't be ridiculous, Hermione," Ron said, with an exaggerated expression of denial written all over his face.

(_Danger, Ron Weasley. Danger. Danger._)

"What I'm trying to say, Hermione," Ron spoke carefully, "is that — that now I have a Clean Bill of Health from the Healers, and I'm working with Flora each week still, maybe we should, er—"

"We should _what_, Ron?"

"—give it a shot."

Hermione stared at him, dumbstruck.

"Wait . . . is _this_," Hermione pointed at Ron, "your idea of asking a girl out, Ron?"

(_Is there any way of casting the Killing Curse__ on myself? My brain and mouth keep acting _completely_ independent of each other _. . .)

For the hundredth time that day alone, Ron found himself hitting his head with his hand.

"Hermione, how long have we known each other?" Ron asked as he rubbed his now-sore, now-very-red forehead.

"Six years, Ron." Hermione sounded totally exasperated.

"And how often have you known me to be good about feelings and stuff?"

Hermione considered this for a few moments.

"You've never really been comfortable talking about that, Ron. I know _that_."

To Ron's great relief, Hermione's voice had softened considerably.

"Right. So, please just remember that while I stumble through this. Emotional teaspoon, right?" Ron paused as Hermione snorted softly with amusement.

"Okay . . . go on, then." To Ron's great relief, Hermione was finally giving him a small smile.

"Thing is, Hermione, I'm a bloke. And blokes do notice things, okay? They'll look at girls and certain, er, things on girls. And we can't help it. It's just what we do. And I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry on behalf of _myself_ and _all_ the blokes on the planet for being vulgar, savage pigs!"

(_Godric bless Ginny _. . . _I'd get her a bloody Firebolt right now if I could _. . .)

"But, my brain's slowly come around to where it should've over the last year," Ron started closing the gap between him and Hermione. "I should've said something a long time ago, Hermione. I mean, I realized over the last year or so that there's really only been one girl that's, well, that's it, y'know? The only girl I've ever seen, or talked to, or — or wanted to tease and fight with because she looked pretty fit whenever we would row." Ron gazed at her eyes brightly.

Hermione smiled, rather coyly.

"She's only 'fit', Ron?"

Ron shook his head. "No. She's also a damn bright girl—"

"Ron, language." Hermione said, through a grin.

"She wants to change the world, one _'spew'_ at a time," Ron spoke softly, a twitter of a smile on his face.

"That's S.P.E.W., Ron" Hermione spoke quietly, still smiling, and there was now a blush slowly spreading across her cheeks. Ron noticed that the two of them were drifting closer together . . . and it wasn't just him doing the moving.

"But, she's a bit confusing, y'see?" Hermione creased her brow, her smile faltering. Ron continued, "She seems to have a thing for scowly, Bulgarian gits—"

"He noticed I was a girl, Ron." Hermione's face was once again mere centimeters from Ron's; her brow lifted and that smile returned. She stopped and looked at him. "He wasn't who I wanted, Ron. You need to know that. He wasn't _at_ _all_ who I wanted."

Ron nodded.

"I think I'm finally getting that." He touched her cheek with his right hand, hearing her breath stop.

(_Do it, man!_)

"Ron—" Hermione whispered gently, her breath sweetly caressed his cheek.

Ron lowered his head and brushed his lips gently against Hermione's.

As first kisses went, Ron had no idea what to expect. Would he be able to smell his own breath, and would it smell bad? Would teeth be involved? What about head tiltage, and whose tongue goes where? The twins were of absolutely no help as to these troubling questions when Ron would gather up enough courage to ask them . . . .

(_Fred: "Oh, Ronniekins, just follow Hermione's lead!" George: "Smartest witch of the decade and all that!"_)

(_Ron: "Gits!" he'd said back to them, while flipping them the bird._)

However, all those questions flew out of his mind the second he touched her lips. Lips that were far and away more lovely than any cleavage Ron had ever been in close proximity to. Their kiss, at first delicate with its utter _newness_ of territory, deepened when both teens realized they were kissing 'Ron' and 'Hermione', best friends. It was a kiss filled with six years of history . . . six years of friendship and something more . . . six years of _them_.

The kiss deepened and lengthened, and Ron felt that extraordinary feeling rise up from his tummy to his tongue as he embraced her and kissed her lips and touched her tongue with his and swayed and touched her hair and swayed even more and smelled her hair which had a sweet scent as if she had bathed in strawberries and honeysuckle . . . .

(_Don't stop_.)

(_Weasley, if you haven't noticed, she _is _kissing you back _. . .)

(_Don't ever stop this_.)

Ron smiled into her mouth as she sighed.

"Utterly brilliant, Ron."

"Took the words right out of my mouth," he whispered back.

* * *

Later, Ron spoke her name in his sleep, amidst the rhythmic snores in the Gryffindor sixth year boys' dormitory. His head filled with images of Hermione in various states of dress and undress, typical of a teenage boy sharing a new, physical connection with the girl of his dreams.

He kissed her in a green field, resembling the Burrow on a late summer day. Her small arms circled around his back and her brown hair, curling from the moisture in the air, danced in the breeze and tickled his face. And it was brilliant, this kissing, because he finally had a point of reference from that very same day when he had actually _kissed_ herand it was everything wonderful that that thought and that dream and that image had ever entailed.

Suddenly, the image of him kissing and necking with Hermione in the middle of a field grew dark as twenty streaks of black filled the air above them, yanking Hermione from his grasp. Ten brains flashed through the air before Ron could even see them and squeezed around his neck and chest, cutting off the breath in his throat and he felt the pop of ribs cracking.

Ron's eyes bulged open as he saw the men grabbing Hermione, pulling her arms in opposite directions. Despite reaching for her . . . seeing her face contort in pain . . . Ron couldn't touch her . . . couldn't yell for her. All he could see was the red light from their spells hitting her body over and over again. All he could hear was her screaming as the Cruciatus Curse tore into her body, her voice and body shredding into pieces . . .

The sounds of his nightmare entered his reality. The only things Ron could feel and hear once he had left his own mind and the violent images that had slammed into his brain while he had been asleep was Harry's hands shaking him and Harry yelling at him to stop screaming.

**

* * *

A/N: **I hope that how I portrayed Daphne's behavior does not offend anyone; I was somewhat concerned that her actions could've come across as homophobic (when neither she nor I are!); she is a very desperate girl.

I decided to do two chapters this week and get this one up early because I'm out of town for the weekend. Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think in a review. I've got plenty of cyber-cake, cyber-cookies, and cyber-punch to go 'round!


	14. Chapter 13: A Blossoming Trust

**A/N:** I own nothing . . . Thanks so much to stella8h8chang for beta'ing this chapter!

Please check out my "A Second Thought" series; these are one-shots focused on characters that won't be getting so much face-time in this story. Right now, I have Draco and Pansy. Hermione, Neville, Ginny and Luna will be forthcoming.

Rated T for strong language and violent imagery.

* * *

**Chapter 13: A Blossoming Trust**

"Miss _Green_-grass."

Daphne looked up, hearing the dry tone of the Head of Slytherin House, Professor Severus Snape, gliding over to her as she departed to breakfast . . . this time, without incident.

Professor Snape peered at her face, tilting his head left and right. He folded his hands inside the sleeves of his robes and spoke to her with his brow furrowed. "I received word from Madam Pomfrey that Pansy Parkinson will be returning today from the hospital wing."

"Yes, sir." Daphne dutifully replied.

"I trust there will be no further incidents in the dormitories?" Professor Snape spoke with nary an inflection in his voice; he sounded steady, calm, and very, _very_ cold.

(_Colder than a witch's tit_ . . .)

"Sir, with all due respect to you," Daphne started, pausing as Professor Snape raised one eyebrow, "Park- . . . er, Miss Parkinson tried to hit me with a Bludgeoning Hex . . ."

Professor Snape held his hand up with a sharp flick of his wrist. "Miss Greengrass, I do not need another report of the incident from yesterday morning." He spoke to her at rapid-fire speed; he was clearly in a great rush to get the hell out of her presence. "I am well-aware of the events that took place, and that you were acting in self-defense. How-_ever_," he said as he leaned down toward her, his beady eyes meeting her beady eyes, "I will only caution you to keep the peace on your end. Intra-House Defensive Magic _should_ be limited to Shield Charms, _Petrificus_ _Totalus_, and physical maneuvering _only_. I do not wish to see any more spells that can alter one of my student's physical appearances."

(_Did he even have this same conversation with Parkinson? I mean_ . . . _she used a bloody Bludgeoning Hex!_)

Daphne hated it when he spoke so matter-of-factly, with no hint of that admirable, somewhat congenial smirk he used when talking with the other students.

Well, with the other Slytherins.

She decided she needed to push her luck with Professor Snape, so she lowered her head penitently and tried to make her voice sound sincere, "Professor, I really am sorry for causing this much trouble. I hope it doesn't happen again."

She looked at Professor Snape, who had crossed his arms and was staring at her with an absolutely blank face at her. "I should hope _so_, Miss Greengrass. It is as much for your benefit as it is for Miss Parkinson's." And, with that, he strode off.

Totally exasperated, Daphne shook it off and walked toward the Great Hall for breakfast. It wasn't that she was necessarily sad about Professor Snape's apparent disinterest with her, but . . . _dammit_!

It stung her like a bitch.

He'd been far more aloof with her last year than during her first four years. She had worked so hard to keep her grades up in Potions, not only because she liked the subject, but because of Professor Snape. He'd made a number of comments over the years that she was an impressive Potions student and, indeed, if she stayed on track in his class, she might have a future as Potion Masters at Hogwarts in the future . . . far, far, _far_ into the future.

But that was before the DA, before the Ministry, before throwing her lot in with Harry Potter. And now? Well, now there was _nothing_. Professor Snape showed her no pride, no satisfaction.

Professor Snape seemed to be completely indifferent towards her.

(_Look at what your blasted 'noble streak' got you _. . .)

(_It _got_ you absolutely_ _nowhere with your favorite teacher _. . .)

(_You can_ _be quiet now_.)

Daphne entered the Great Hall, just letting her eyes wander around the room as she walked toward the Slytherin table.

Briefly, she noticed the tall, dark-haired Michael Corner, sitting among the other Ravenclaws. As their eyes briefly met, Daphne saw him wave to her. Looking around, making sure none of her tablemates would notice, she returned the favor, without a hint of amusement.

* * *

"Ron?"

No response . . .

Harry shook at him harder.

"_Ro_-on . . . Oi! Mate! Breakfast time. Wakey-wakey!"

Harry shook at him again.

"Hermione?" Harry gestured pathetically toward his other friend. "He won't bloody budge."

"Oh, _move over_!" Hermione took a glass of water off the nearby table, and threw the ice-cold contents all over the sleeping redhead.

That did the trick.

Ron gasped and sat straight up in bed, shaking water out of his mouth and eyes.

"Here, Harry," Hermione said quickly, while Ron was preoccupied with wiping off his face. She shoved the glass into Harry's hand.

"Wha'?"

"_Bloody hell_! Was that really fucking necessary, Potter?" Ron pointed at the now-empty glass in his hand. Harry looked down at the glass and then glowered at Hermione, who had a mischievous little grin on her face.

"'M going to clean up . . ." Ron mumbled, rolling out of bed and walking toward the bathrooms.

Harry turned on Hermione.

"Gee, _thanks_ a lot for that!" Much to Harry's consternation, Hermione giggled at him.

"S-sorry, just . . . I learned from the best," she said, gesturing toward the bathroom, "and 'the best's' family."

Harry merely nodded, still glaring at her. He looked at the glass, still in his hand. "It was a really bad dream last night, Hermione."

Harry felt Hermione put her hand on his shoulder. "What happened?"

"I could kind of hear him talking in his sleep," Harry spoke softly, looking at the bathroom, making sure he could hear the shower coming on. He sat on the edge of Ron's bed, hands resting on his knees. "Well, er, it wasn't a nightmare at first, okay?'

"What do you mean?"

Harry creased his brow. He wasn't quite sure whether or not to tell Hermione that Ron had been saying her name in his sleep . . . or that Ron most _definitely_ didn't sound like he was having a nightmare at that time.

"Well, it seemed like he was having a pleasant dream, okay?"

"And how would you know, Harry?" Hermione crossed her arms and her face was a curious mixture of suspicion and interest.

"Hermione . . . just trust me. You've slept in his room before. You know he talks in his sleep."

Harry saw Hermione relax. "Okay, go on then."

"Well, his talking started getting more and more loud, more and more frantic-sounding. He started screaming at someone, his hands were waving around, looking for someone."

"Did he say any names? If he said 'Winston's' name again, we'll know it was connected to the brain attack and the scars."

Harry shook his head. "Erm, no, actually. If I'm being totally honest, Hermione, well — Ron was sort of saying your name. Screaming it, more like. Telling someone to let you go."

"Oh." Hermione plopped down on the bed next to Harry. They didn't speak for a moment. Harry chanced a look over to Hermione, who was shaking her head, her eyes growing moist.

"Hey, you all right?" Harry asked her, nudging her gently. Hermione shook her head.

"I thought he was past some of this, Harry. But he's not. He seems to have absorbed so many of those images from the brain attack, that now they're mixing in with his normal dreams."

"Maybe, it was just a regular nightmare, Hermione." She looked at him incredulously.

"Harry, did he dream about a group of men dressed in black abducting me, torturing and killing me?"

Harry sighed, and ran his hand through his messy hair. It was all the answer Hermione needed.

Ron walked out from the bathroom; his hair, growing ever so longer and shaggier, was still wet and dripping. Planting himself directly in front of Harry, he reached for Hermione to get up off the bed and stand next to him.

"Ron?" Harry said with nervous curiosity.

With his chin set firmly in determination, Ron shook his head, like a dog, making sure to splash Harry all over.

"Hey!" Harry yelled, raising his hands.

"You get me? I get you! Payback's a bitch, Potter." Ron said with a smirk. Hermione was doubled over, laughing. Harry opened his mouth indignantly, about to tell Ron that it hadn't been him who so rudely woken him up that morning.

"C'mon, boys," Hermione said, pulling Ron away from a still-gawping, now-dripping Harry, "Breakfast will be over soon."

They waited for Ron to gather up his books and bag and they set off for the Great Hall, Harry and Hermione on either side of Ron.

"Hey Ron," Harry said, "do you want to talk about last night?" Hermione leaned in as well, waiting for Ron to answer.

Harry watched as Ron heaved a sigh. "I was hoping we could just sort of ignore that whole 'screaming in my sleep' thing." Ron shrugged and thrust his hands into his pockets.

The boys' forward momentum was suddenly interrupted as they caught a face-full of Hermione's wild brown hair.

"No you don't, Ron," she spoke sternly, finger poking him in the chest with each word. "You need to get these dreams and whatever things are floating around in your head out in the open and deal with them. With Flora, for one."

"Hermione," Ron said, grasping hold of her forceful digit that continued to prod at him, "there's nothing wrong with me. It was just a stupid ruddy dream—"

"About me being taken and killed by a group of men dressed in black robes, right?" Hermione asked quietly, but assertively. "I'll bet all my 'Outstanding' O.W.L.S. that it was the same group of Death Eaters that took your Auror during her final assignment."

Ron let go of Hermione's finger, and looked down. Kicking at the rug's continually moving lump beneath their feet, Ron could only shrug. "Yeah . . . maybe."

Hermione took his face into her hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes. Harry wanted to turn away and give the both of them some privacy, but his curiosity — and desire to know how Ron would respond — got the better of him.

"Ron, I don't want to see you hurting, or suffering with these dreams. I want you healthy and whole, okay. Please, do this for you. For Harry and me . . ."

Harry had never heard Hermione sound so earnest in asking — no, _pleading _— with Ron to take care of himself.

"Flora is here for that purpose. Let her help you, "

Harry could see the 'happy-go-lucky' façade that Ron had adopted this morning fade. In its place was the worn, tired, and dark expression that Ron always had after one of his more troubling nights. He smiled meekly to her and nodded slightly.

"Y-you're right, Hermione. Next session, okay?" Ron said. Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Patting Ron on the back (and inadvertently breaking the near-hypnotic connection between his two best friends), Harry jogged ahead of the two Gryffindor prefects.

"Hey," Harry gestured with his head, "let's get to the Great Hall before Defense class. I don't fancy going before Snape on an empty stomach." Ron and Hermione could only shrug their agreement at this point, and sped up to join their friend.

* * *

"Shite! I honestly don't understand how I made it with an 'E' to get into this bloody class. The stupid number charts were fine and dandy when we were counting up all of our names and other names and stupid dead wizard and witches' names and all, but _seriously_," Michael said as he slapped at the syllabus for their class, "'Create a foundational numerical chart covering the span of time starting from the present year up to the next 500 years' . . . Vector's off her rocker, she is." Michael Corner sounded exasperated, and Daphne's patience with the boy had very nearly run out.

Restraining herself from saying the thought that had just popped into her head (_I honestly don't understand how you got an 'E' myself!_), Daphne rubbed her eyes tiredly. She could hear the low rumbling of her stomach as it called for nourishment.

"I heard that," Michael said, grinning, forehead resting on his fist. He looked at his books, his grin fading. "Sometimes, I'm not sure how I got sorted into Ravenclaw. I mean, I should get this, right?" He gestured at his books in pointed frustration.

"Well," Daphne let out a breath, and spoke to him as honestly as she could without hurting his feelings, "it _is_ hard. We're just _now _starting the unit covering generalized numerical charting to predict future trends, which, after three years of doing this crap, you'd think we would have already covered it. And . . . the Agrippan Method seems to provide more specific detailing when looking at individual figures or evaluating a particular event, but I've actually found the Chaldean Method to be better suited for the bigger stuff. Limiting the charting from one to eight is not only more symmetrical but you can get rid of pesky details that only throw _more_ shit onto the . . ." Daphne drifted off, as her hands froze in mid-gesture. Michael was sniggering at her. "What?"

"You're pretty brilliant, y'know that?"

"You're preaching to the choir, Corner."

"No, I mean . . . you're in Slytherin. You're not in Ravenclaw—"

"What, you mean I'm not in the house 'where those of wit and learning will always find their kind . . .'"

Michael chortled. "You actually remembered that? Wasn't that in our—"

"First year. Sorting Hat song. Yeah."

Michael shook his head, still clearly amused. "You're a far better teacher than Vector . . . at least you're more entertaining. I'd get this crap if Vector simplified it and added more 'flowery language' and 'colorful metaphors' to her lessons."

Daphne smirked. "What, you mean me describing the intersection of figures right about here," she pointed at a peculiar formation on the chart she had drawn up, "as a 'magical number-gasm'?"

Michael barked a laugh into his hands, trying desperately not to draw Madam Pince's ire. Daphne pressed her own lips together, stubbornly refusing to smile, no matter how much she wanted to. She looked down at her quill, rolling it between the pads of her fingers. "Why are you being so nice to me, Corner?" She returned her eyes back to his face.

Michael, still smiling, merely shrugged. "I needed help with this. You said yourself that you're second to Hermione Granger in Arithmancy . . ."

"I did, but, that's not just me, right? If you remember, Vector always mentions the top five students after she grades each quiz or essay. I'm usually second or third, so, there you go," she said, gesturing with her open hand in finality.

"Once again, I'm floored by your humbleness," Michael said dryly.

"Well, when I've got it, I flaunt it," Daphne smirked.

"I'm starting to see that, Greengrass." Michael considered her for a second. "Also, I wanted to get to know you better after last year."

Daphne cocked an eyebrow. "Really"

Michael nodded. "I guess you're kind of intriguing."

(_What the hell does that mean?_)

"What do you mean by that, Corner?"

"Well, you're a Slytherin, you spent most of last year with the DA, and, if the Daily Prophet is the business of printing the truth these days, you also fought with Potter and . . ." Michael stopped, coughing awkwardly.

"Who? Do you mean _Ginny_? I fought with _Ginny Weasley _. . . among others."

Michael glowered at her.

"I know you went with her last year, but I heard she and you broke up?"

Michael grumbled, looking at the floor.

"Must suck seeing her with that Gryffindor Thomas?"

Continuing to swear under his breath, Michael stuffed his books into his bag.

"Whoa! Sore spot, eh, Corner?"

"You don't have some sort of 'off-on' switch, do you, Greengrass?" Michael stopped packing away his books and looked her severely. "You push and push until the other person gets sick of it, and walks away."

"Well, what do you expect? You all but admitted you really just think I'm some sort of display you can gawk at. 'Oooh, look! It's the elusive _noble_ Slytherin. See how she simpers around the Gryffindors?'" Daphne huffed crossly. "Don't start talking about me like you know what I'm about. I might be 'on' all the time, but there's a method to my madness."

"And what could that possibly be, for you to be so _warm_ and_ cuddly_?" Michael looked pissed off.

Daphne opened her mouth . . . and found no words that would come out. Over the last year, she seemed to have been stricken with some sort of Silencing Charm when someone would ask her a simple question, and try as she might, she had no answer for them.

Usually, it was when the question revolved around her explaining what she was all about. And she hated that she had no answer for them. And so, she usually tried to disarm the inquisitive person, with salty words and jabs at their ego.

Michael shook his head. "Look, thanks for the help here. I need to get going. And it sounds like your stomach is telling you to get going yourself." He finished putting his things away and closed his book bag. Daphne continued looking at him with a troubled brow.

"Michael."

Slinging the bag over his shoulder, Michael turned back to Daphne. "Yeah?"

Daphne regarded her hands, which were folded into her lap. She coughed, before finding her verbal footing. "I, er . . . I'm sorry, is all, okay?" she mumbled.

"Sorry?"

"Yeah, for-for pushing you too hard. I- . . . it just kind of comes out, y'know? Sometimes, I'll find the soft little underbelly of a person, and I know that I'm doing it, but I can't stop poking at it with a stick or just talking about it until they're either bitching at me, or looking like they want to punch me right in the face, and before I know it, they're pissed off, and wanting to hex my head right off. . ." Daphne looked up from her rambling, only to find Michael Corner giving her a very Ron-like lopsided grin. "What're you smirking at Corner?"

"Nothing, just your apology, that's all," he said with a light laugh. "You're killing me with your run-on sentences."

Daphne snorted a laugh at herself, "I s'pose I get the verbal equivalent of troll diarrhea when I'm trying to be contrite."

To her surprise, he sat back down.

"I'm sorry too," Michael said, continuing to look at her. "I shouldn't have said what I said. But, I dunno . . ." Michael frowned slightly, as if trying to think through what he wanted to say next so as to not to further offend Daphne. "All I meant by it was that you surprised me — as well as others — and I wanted to get to know you better." Michael swept his hand toward her parchments and Arithmancy textbooks and his bag. "This gave me an excuse to do just that."

Daphne blinked . . . and swallowed . . . and felt herself nodding a bit.

"Pick up your stuff. Let's get down to dinner, all right?"

Daphne gave him a fleeting close-mouthed grin, put her things away, and joined him as they left the library.

* * *

"So, Ron, talk to me. What's been going on with you?"

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was sitting in a transfigured armchair; Flora, his Emotional Healer, had made sure that it was extra comfortable with cushions that could've rivaled the softness of the common room's couches . . . had Ron not already arrived at his appointment nervous, tired, and fairly grouchy. He merely shrugged his shoulders.

"You don't feel like talking to me today, Ron, we don't have to do this—"

Ron was suddenly seized by a squirm in his guts. Rubbing his abdomen, he grimaced. "No, I . . . I think we should talk about something, Flora."

"Fine, Ron. Just take your time."

Ron intertwined his fingers and placed them in his lap, his leg bouncing vigorously. "I want to talk about the nightmares, Flora." He watched Flora nod at him, saying nothing, her eyes continuing to regard him carefully. "I mean, this is, what, our seventh session or something? And, you've been really good about not asking me or forcing me to talk about it, and — well — honestly, I thought since I'd gotten a Clean Bill of Health from the Healers Gibbey and Morewold, I had stopped having the nightmares, but . . ."

"Did you have another nightmare recently, Ron?"

Ron nodded. "One Tuesday night, and then another one just last night. They've come back in full force, but they — they're different now."

Flora simply gestured for him to continue at his own speed.

Inhaling and closing his eyes, Ron began.

"Okay, so since the beginning of the summer holiday, I was having these really awful nightmares. As far as I could tell, they were about a Muggle-born Auror with the last name Winston who must've fought in the First War, because there's no mention of Harry or anything else saying otherwise." Ron looked at Flora and bit his lip. "Hermione reckons it must've been this Winston's brain that attacked me. She sort of thinks that this Auror Winston did loads of undercover work, and had been able to infiltrate pretty deeply into Y-You-Know-Who's ranks before her cover was blown, and she was captured and eventually killed." At this, Ron stopped and swallowed; he had only ever broached the subject of his dreams with Harry and Hermione and, even then, he never went into great detail.

"But, it wasn't always _bad_ dreams, necessarily. Sometimes, it was about this Winston's childhood, or her at Hogwarts or during Auror training. I don't know if she was married . . . er, she seemed to have a lot of, umm . . . partners, or something, if I'm being honest." Flora nodded, indicating for Ron to continue. "It got to the point where I could smell things from her memories, like men's cologne, or taste food or drinks that her brain remembered, but that I hadn't eaten recently."

Ron paused, running his hands through his red hair.

"The worst things, though was being touched by someone," at this, Ron turned his eyes down, remembering how he had reacted around Hermione at the beginning of summer, "and smelling things. It — it always seemed that it would be worst after a bad nightmare, but I could smell so many thing . . . sometimes it was chicken, potatoes, or cakes, pies, sweets — kind of like Hogwarts' meals, y'know? Other times . . ." Ron trailed off, shuddering.

"What was it like, Ron?"

Ron looked back at Flora, expression serious and hard. "I could smell really bad body smells, okay. Like rotten breaths, like they were right up against my face, spitting at me. There was another time, when I dreamt that I — because always, when I had these dreams, it was like _I_ was Winston — that I had been put into this room with . . . a bunch of other people. I, or Winston rather, was thrown in there after she'd been captured by some Death Eaters once her cover was blown. . . ." Ron closed his eyes while he spoke, "and she fell on top of a couple of prisoners. Through the light, she could see their faces . . . almost like gray skin stretched too tight over bones, y'know? She could see their teeth jutting out of their head." Ron stopped, his breath increased rapidly. "Their eyes had a cloudy film over them, and she couldn't see what color they were. Didn't matter, I mean — they were obviously already dead. And that's when she realized she had a hand on one of their chests, but there was this squiggly movement . . ." Ron opened his eyes, his breath still shaky. He raised one hand and wriggled his fingers in front of his face, "—and when I, or _she_ looked down, she saw maggots crawling all over her hands. I felt them — I continued to feel them when I bolted out of bed." Ron threw his head back, flexing and shaking his hands as if trying to rid himself of the horrible sensation.

A pregnant pause filled the air between him and Flora. "Do you need anything before we continue, Ron?"

His head still over the back of his chair, Ron shook his head and said very audibly, "No, 'm fine, Flora."

After a moment, Ron had still said nothing. Flora spoke, "Just continue when you're ready."

Taking in another deep breath, Ron brought his head back up and went on. "Sometimes, while they were waiting to kill her, they . . . th-they would do things to her, to Winston . . . and," Ron felt his heart, his breath speeding up again, "And I could feel it . . . could remember the things she saw and felt. . . ." Ron looked away from Flora. "I-I mean, when I saw some of the things they were doing to her, it looked like it was a couple of Death Eaters, though. It wasn't something that was encouraged by the higher-ups." Ron wrinkled his brow in thought. "At times, I saw some of the Death Eaters that were in charge of the lower-ranking individuals breaking up the attack, telling them that You-Know-Who's army does not touch Muggle-borns like that — they used a lot more vulgar words, though." Ron looked at Flora. "Didn't necessarily stop them, but it seemed to slow down their attacks."

Ron stopped, smoothing out the wrinkles in his jeans. "Auror Winston, though, she just took it. Usually if they made for someone else in the holding cell, Winston would taunt them or would hit them or do anything to get the Death Eaters to leave the others alone and focus on her. After they left, she wouldn't cry or break down. She'd just sit, her back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing in and out, waiting for the next time that they'd come back. They kept her alive for a couple of weeks, trying to take out whatever they could from her brain. Then, they killed her, like she was no big deal."

He could hear the shakiness of his breath as he expelled the air in his lungs. He could feel himself on the verge of losing it in front of Flora.

"Flora, it's not like I ever confused me with Winston, y'know? I knew that what I was dreaming wasn't anything that I had ever been through, and it was all from the brain." Ron chewed on his lip and rubbed his fingernails nervously. "I always know if it's my thoughts or Winston's memories, yeah?" Ron continued to worry his lip, and he mussed his hair with his hand. "When I started receiving treatments for the sensory stuff, I . . . I still had some nightmares, but they changed. It was like they morphed together with my own thoughts."

Ron sighed, blinking for a long time. In the background, he could hear students laughing outside, in the hallway. On the floor, the low-hanging sunlight, slowly retreating into darkness, dappled the floor in nondescript patterns.

"Go ahead, Ron. I'm still here with you." Flora said again.

Ron gave her a small, fleeting smile. "I started having dreams about Hermione and Harry, or my family. Hell, I could see the others that were with us at the Ministry — Luna and Neville. Even Daphne. I'd see them getting taken by the same men that took Winston, or I'd see them getting tortured, beaten, the Death Eaters attacking them, attacking the girls . . ." Ron stopped, catching his breath.

"But I'd also find myself dreaming vividly about other stuff too. Like stuff just about me and Harry and Hermione. And it usually was about something that them leaving me so they could go off to do something really big," Ron looked down at his hands, "and I'd be left behind, wanting to follow them. Or I'd see Harry and Hermione together, but I can't get near them or I can't touch them." Ron slumped back in his seat. "So many times, it's about the three of us. Or, there was this other dream that I could hear my family at the Burrow, and all the lights were on, and I could hear Harry and Hermione. They were all talking and laughing about something, but I didn't know what because I couldn't get inside. I tried everything, anything I could think of. Just as I was about to blast down the door, there was a bright green flash and screaming. Then everything went quiet."

Ron looked up at Flora. He knew that his face looked utterly lost, and his voice matched the despondent feeling. He slumped low in his seat, his long legs splayed out before him. He was twitching his heel violently.

After a while, Flora spoke up.

"You know, Ron, I'm very impressed with you," she said, smiling.

Ron raised his eyebrow. "Impressed?" he snorted. "You probably say that to all your kids."

"No, Ron. I can honestly say I don't tell everyone that. I do make sure to tell them things they should know, things they should be aware of. You, young man," she said gently, "need to know just how impressive you actually are. It's not a lot of teenage boys that can cope with these nightmares and what's going on in them, without breaking down—"

"But I'm _scared_!" Ron said desperately. "I'm scared about the next fight, the next time we go up against those bastards, I'll be all out of it again. I'll get hexed or cursed or something, and I won't be there to protect her . . ." Ron trailed off. He sat with his fist pressed against his mouth.

"Protect who, Ron?"

"_Her_ . . . Hermione. I let her get cursed by Dolohov." Ron said, his knuckles rubbing against his mouth. "I was out of it, and she got hit. She got hit so badly, Flora," Ron's eyes shifted over to the Healer. "And, oh _Godric_ . . . what if she'd got captured, huh? If they'd touched her like--"

Here, Ron made a choking sound in his throat and abruptly stopped talking, tearing his eyes away from Flora. Swallowing and shaking his head, Ron blinked and continued talking, in a softer, controlled tone, "And I wasn't there for Harry, and he—" Ron stopped himself again.

"Ron?" Flora asked.

"Harry lost someone important to him," Ron said, looking at his feet, "during the fight. I-I sort of can't help but wonder if I had just been there and _not_ disoriented, well . . . things might've been different, y'know? Sirius might still be alive."

"Ron, I'm going to stop you right here, okay? Not because anything you have to say isn't important, but because I need to say something. Is that all right with you?"

Ron nodded that it was okay by him if she wanted to talk.

"There are so many 'what ifs' in our lifetime, Ron — so many things that could be different if we had or hadn't done just _one _thing differently. If we let these 'what ifs' rule our present, then we force ourselves to live in the past. The best thing we can do, then, is live by what we have learned. Do you understand?"

"I think so. Live by your mistakes, right? That's what my Mum and Dad say."

"It's not even just about mistakes, but about what you've _lived_ _through_. Ron, you could do everything _right_ and something horrible still happens. Out of your control. Nothing more."

Ron considered this for a moment in silence.

"But actually, Ron, can I go back to my original point, when I said I was impressed with you?"

Ron nodded for Flora to continue.

"What amazes me about you, Ron, is that you have been exposed to these awful images, over and over again, for a long period of time and in rapid succession. Had this happened to anyone else . . . heck, I'll use myself, for example. Had it been _me_ who'd been attacked by the brains, I wouldn't have been able to emerge from it with so much of myself intact."

Ron looked confused.

"Ron, what I mean is, your strength of character, the very _essence_ of you is still there, open and visible for the entire world to see. You're still _you_—"

"You sound like my Dad, Flora."

"Well, from what I know of Arthur Weasley, as funny and charming as he is, he's also a very astute and intelligent man. And he seems to have passed his better qualities down to his youngest son."

Ron couldn't help but blush. The next thought escaped from his lips before he could stop it.

"But I suck at being _me_!"

"Why in the world do you think that, Ron?"

Ron found he couldn't sit still any longer. In a quick motion, Ron stood up out of his seat and walked around the tiny, curtained-off area in the Hospital Wing.

Ruffling his hair and thinking through what he would say, Ron turned back to his Emotional Healer, and started talking. "I'm a lazy idiot. I look like a speckly, too-thin giraffe. I swear too much, and I've done nothing at all to distinguish me from my popular and intelligent brothers, the Twins, or Ginny the Pretty Perfect Princess. My best friend is The Chosen One, and I've only started _really _seeing — as in we _finally _kissed this week — the girl of my dreams, who is in fact Hermione 'The Smartest Witch Ever Born!' Jean Granger. I can't live up to all of that! I can't be worth it for all of them. I mean . . . what the hell do I have to give to them? They're special . . . I'm just a git."

Ron fell back into his chair, exhausted after his rant.

"I wanted to work out these nightmares on my own. Sure, they're pretty gruesome. But none of it happened to me, personally." Ron shrugged. "I mean, Auror Winston — she was tough. She never broke when they were actually physically attacking her. She taunted them so they'd actually focus on hurting _her_, no one else. Me? I couldn't be touched for several weeks without having a fit, and I was scared shitless over some stupid dreams."

Ron looked up at the ceiling, shutting his eyes tight.

"Pardon my French, Flora."

The last thing he needed was anyone — even Healer Flora Auditor — seeing his eyes grow watery or his chin trembling.

(_Such a fuck-up, Weasley!_)

"Ron," Flora began. "Unfortunately, I can't make you change your mind about yourself, as much as I wish I could. But I'd like to tell you how _I _see you. Would you mind?"

Still looking up at the ceiling, Ron rolled his head over the back of his chair, and shrugged. He really didn't care what she thought of him.

"I see a teenager on the verge of manhood. You might have your insecurities, but you don't think twice about running through the fire for a cause or for a friend or family member in need. You are extremely funny and smart — no dummy gets a good seven O.W.L.S. Look at me! I got six. Think I'm dumb?"

Ron lifted his head off the chair and shook his head.

"I'm fairly sure, Ron, that Hermione didn't take your tests for you too, so that's all you, right?" When Ron didn't answer, Flora went on. "I also see a boy who will fight to the bitter end for a cause that he believes in. That, my dear, requires a tremendous amount of courage and loyalty, and I've seen few adults exhibit those qualities. From what I hear about this Auror Winston, she seems to have been a similar character. The difference between you and her, however, is that she was an adult who had been doing a job for which she received special training. You fought based on your own beliefs of what was right and what was wrong. No pay, no reward, but you put yourself on the line and stood and fought with your friends.

"I also see a fellow with a saucy, stubborn spirit that a thousand Death Eaters probably couldn't break. Think about the many funny things I've heard you say since we've started meeting. Think about the funny things I'm sure you've said with Harry, Hermione or your family. Think about how far you've come with Daphne. You're willing to push beyond your own prejudices about Slytherins so you can get to know this girl better. In my opinion, Ron, you are resilient. You are also funny, intelligent brave and extremely loyal. You, Ron Weasley, are unflappable, unsinkable, and _unstoppable_!"

If Ron thought he had started trembling before, he now felt his entire body vibrating as he stuffed this _want_ to cry down.

Suddenly, above them, a great _DING_ rang out in the Hospital Wing, causing both Flora and Ron to jump out of their seats in surprise.

"Goodness! I had no idea that our hour was already up!" Flora said. "Ron, I'm so sorry, I feel like I'm cutting you off. Do you have anything else you wanted to add?"

Ron blinked and shook his head. Much to his annoyance, a tear managed to escape from his lower lashes. He quickly swiped at it with his sleeve, sniffing quietly at the same time as he did so. "Shit," he swore, mostly to himself.

He hoped Flora wouldn't make a big deal out of this.

(_God, seriously! Crying because nobody pays attention to you. Worthless!_)

Flora stood up and walked toward him. She placed one hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn his wet eyes upon her. She held out a handkerchief for Ron to take.

"It's really okay, Ron, you know?" Flora spoke, matter-of-factly. "A good emotional release can do wonders for you. I'll stay here—"

"No. Er . . . it-it's not necessary, Flora," Ron stammered. He cursed his still-trembling lip. "I don't want to keep you or anything . . ." He could hear the thick, nasally sound of his own voice, and knew he was on the verge of collapse.

Flora shook her head and spoke intensely at him. "Ron, I want you to express what _you_ want, okay? If _you_ don't want me here right now, I can leave, no questions. If you want me to stay, I'll stay. No questions."

Ron could only slightly shake his head. His chin shook hard, causing his teeth to hit each other. As he opened his mouth, a bubble of spit popped. He could feel his body shuddering. He leaned forward, covering his hands to his face, resting his elbows on his knees. He felt small circles of pressure rubbing his jumpered back, and Flora warmly whispering "it's okay . . . it's okay . . ." with each true sob that wracked his body.

* * *

Harry and Hermione stormed up to the Gryffindor common room, arms laden with food for their missing friend. When the puddings had finally emerged on the table, they started discussing exactly where Ron would be. The first place they would obviously look would be the common room. If he wasn't there, they would of course check the boys' dormitory, then the Room of Requirement, or other abandoned classrooms, using Harry's Map. Harry speculated that maybe he wanted to go for a late-night flight, to which Hermione scoffed. "But it's already getting dark!" she exclaimed. "What if he gets into trouble?"

"Bogey-Flavored Beans!" Hermione shouted at the Fat Lady's portrait. They watched as she gave a great shudder.

"And disgusting to boot!" she said as she swung her portrait forward. Harry and Hermione stampeded through the entrance, stumbling over each other to check the space.

To their great relief, they found the common room empty, save for a lone figure seated in front of the fireplace. However, the closer they got to Ron, Harry and Hermione looked at each other with some apprehension. They hurried over to him, spilling the edible contents of their arms onto the table before him.

Ron, Harry noticed, had been staring vacantly into the fireplace when they approached him. His face looked unusually red and puffy, with crimson streaks running down his pale cheeks, standing in stark contrast to his face.

The minute he had seen his best friend, Harry knew Ron had been crying. But, instead of asking him about it, Harry decided to recap dinner. "Hey," Harry chanced, speaking in a milder tone than he usually used, "we missed you at dinner. Definitely needed you there. Seamus was going on and on about getting detention from Snape when he found him and Lavender in that broom closet on the third floor in the Defense Against the Dark Arts wing . . ."

"Oh, and one more thing," Hermione said as she sat down next to Ron, who slowly turned his attention to her and smiled, "Daphne wasn't sitting at the Slytherin table tonight."

Ron looked confused, "Um, was she at dinner?" He looked between Harry and Hermione. Harry noted the thick, muffled sound of Ron's voice.

"Yes, but she was by the side of one Michael Corner at the Ravenclaw table." Hermione grinned as she saw Ron's shocked expression.

"Er, isn't Corner the git who went with Ginny last year?" Ron asked. Hermione nodded. Chortling, Ron could only shake his head. "Man, I guess Dean should watch out — if Ginny ever breaks up with him, Daphne might reckon he's a fit bloke."

Harry couldn't help smiling at the thought of Ginny and Dean breaking up.

(_Oi! Git! Not about you! It's about Ron_ . . ._ take care of Ron_ . . .)

Hermione slightly grimaced. "It wasn't really promising how everyone was glaring at her when she sat at his table. The Slytherins were giving her these deadly stares, and the Ravenclaws—"

"Let me guess," Ron piped up, with a bit more feeling than before, "They probably looked like they'd been hit repeatedly in the face with Bludgers while Crabbe and Goyle danced in front of them starkers. Am I right?

Harry laughed, a huge grin spreading on his face.

This was _Ron_ . . . his Ron . . . Hermione's Ron . . .

"Shocked _and_ disgusted? Seems to be a fair assessment." Harry sat down on the other side.

He had been so worried, seeing Ron staring at the fireplace. That silent figure, lost in some nameless mental frontier . . . that wasn't Ron. That spark in his blue eyes, at times as crafty and alive as Dumbledore's could be, seemed to have been snuffed out. But all it took was one simple joke, one very 'Ron-like' turn of phrase, and his best mate looked like his best mate again.

Hermione had laughed too, and the grin that had been growing on Ron's face spread even wider.

Then, much to Harry's shock, Ron did something that Harry had thought Ron would never do in front of him.

Ron leaned over to Hermione and kissed her on the forehead. Harry could see Hermione's face blushing furiously, and she tried — rather unsuccessfully — to hide her own smile behind her fingertips.

"Well," Ron said, looking at both Hermione and Harry, with a very loaded expression, "I'm hungry, and since you two probably knew a full Ron is a happy Ron, I'll go ahead and make myself happy!" With that, he smacked and rubbed his hands together. Reaching for his plate, he vigorously and grabbed and tore at a piece of chicken, smiling with greasy-lipped gusto.

Harry could only shake his head, grinning like an idiot. Hermione, still quite red in the face, continued watching Ron as he ate, happier than Harry had seen her in a long while.

* * *

**A/N: **The Sorting Hat, _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, _U.S. Version (Pg. 118).

Additionally, on her Biography episode, JKR said she based Ron Weasley on an old childhood friend of hers, who'd have a knack for similar "turns of phrase" that our Ronniekins would employ. That language is hers, not mine.

I have readjusted any incorrect references to Arithmancy in chapters 9 and 12 in conformance with fact that the subject concerns Divination with numbers. Hopefully, thanks to Wikipedia, the lesson that I invented here conforms with your expectations. I honestly know next to nothing about Agrippa or any arithmancers in history, so I'm pretty much winging it ;0) So . . . "Tell me what you think, what'choo really, really think . . ." And that's the extent of my Spice Girls' song and dance number!


	15. Chapter 14: October Approaches

**A/N: **I own nothing . . . I do owe thanks to stella8h8chang for her revisions of this chapter and to all my reviewers and readers who have stuck with this story and who have me and this tale on alerts. Y'all have been beyond awesome and extraordinarily kind toward this first-time writer.

Oh, and in my earlier chapters, I'm going through and fixing some slight punctuation and terminology errors . . . just wanting to warn any new readers ;0)

And now . . . exposition, _cha-cha-cha_! Rated T for language.

* * *

**Chapter 14: October Approaches**

"I must admit," Hermione spoke over the loud din of the house-elves bustling in the kitchen and the clink of spoons hitting porcelain bowls, "that this is a surprising recipe that you've developed, Daphne."

For the first time since coming to Hogwarts, Harry, Ron and Hermione had snuck down to the fruit bowl portrait to meet Daphne for her traditional late-night snack in the kitchen . . . although it was actually half-past eight on the last Saturday of September, and not the middle of the night when the Gryffindors and the Slytherin met up.

Dobby had scurried over to Harry, practically flying toward the laughing, surprised Gryffindor. Dobby had given Hermione a similar greeting, although her presence in the kitchen caused the other house-elves to turn away from her and to mutter suspiciously amongst themselves.

"Don't they understand?" Hermione asked Ron in a harsh whisper, "I was just trying to help them."

Wisely refraining from laughing at her, Ron simply steered Hermione over to the large wooden table that he and Daphne sat at during his marathon apology session. The bowls, already filled with chunks of bread, had appeared instantly before all four students. The bread-filled bowls were then accompanied by a pitcher of warm milk, sugar, and a bottle of vanilla. The trio munched happily as Daphne recounted the current happenings in Slytherin House.

"See, Slytherin, right now, is an utter madhouse. The usual suspects are still doing their same old shit. Pansy Parkinson's not only a dumb cow, but she's a raving bitch when she gets up to the dormitories and I'm around. Tracey Davis has lost all motivation to be an independent thinker and is currently joined at the hip to 'Pansy-Arse'. Bulstrode," Daphne sighed, rubbing her eyes with the pads of her fingertips, "Bulstrode had said she'd think about choosing to join me in 'Operation Kick Pansy's Bum', but it's been a no go so far. I'm thinking about writing 'Sprout Likes it Rough with Snape!' on her next Herbology essay just to bring her down a notch." Daphne watched Harry and Ron's faces crinkle with disgust; Hermione raised her hand to her head in exasperation.

"There's a mental image for you." Ron said, pushing his bowl away.

"So," said Harry, with a deep breath, "have you been okay since that fight with the other girls?"

Daphne nodded, giving Ron a pointed look that was not lost on Harry. "Zabini actually has stepped up and taken control of Slytherin—"

"What do you mean, 'taken control'?" asked Hermione.

"Zabini, right now, has money and influence, particularly with Slughorn, who is presently Slytherins' Favorite Teacher. Ol' Sluggy lavishes goodies, invitations, and heaps praise and connections on his favorites _and_ Zabini's the only one of us who has a real _in_ with The Slug Club. Hell, even Malfoy and his ruddy gang of baboons brandishing wands try to stay in Zabini's good graces." Daphne took a long sip of her hot chocolate. "Malfoy walks around in a bit of a snit these days because he doesn't seem to wield the power over Slytherin like he used to. He keeps saying he's meant for bigger, better things, though . . ." Daphne trailed off.

Harry couldn't help but sit up and lean in. "What do you mean, Malfoy's muttering—"

Harry noticed Daphne looking at Ron and Hermione; both of his friends had equally annoyed expressions on their faces. However, Harry's curiosity pushed back whatever little sting of guilt was nipping at his chest.

(_I'm not bloody asking her to spy on Malfoy . . . just to give her observations . . . there's a difference!_)

Daphne shook her head, "I honestly don't know. I mean — it could be whatever he was referring to on the Hogwarts Express . . . and he really could be all talk, all bluster, but _very_ little in the production department." She wriggled her pinky finger and waggled a brow. "The other day, he seemed to be bragging about knowing 'the right people', and that Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle were all referring to a 'him' of some sort . . . I honestly didn't really get much more than that. Except, Parkinson's continuing to do most of Malfoy's schoolwork for him.

"Oh! I almost forgot the best part!" Daphne waved her hand excitedly. "You should've seen it the other day in our common room. Malfoy and Parkinson tried to sneak up behind me, ready to throw a curse or two. Zabini stormed over, grabbed his wrist with one hand, and basically told Malfoy he'd have to get a new set of bollocks magically sutured on if he or his girlfriend ever tried something like that again," Daphne said, with a sweep of her spoon. "The best thing was, Zabini did it in front of all the little runts in our house. Now, not only do people associate me and Zabini together, but Zabini's little show put Malfoy in his place."

"And just like that," Harry snapped his fingers, "they'll leave you alone?" Harry was truly skeptical. Malfoy was, if anything, resourceful — he could find a way to get to Daphne if he tried hard enough.

(_Plus, what was with Zabini helping Daphne out?_)

"So, what is it with Zabini helping you out?" Harry asked Daphne. His curiosity piqued when he saw Ron and Daphne looking at each other. "What? Did I mention something I shouldn't?"

Harry watched with suspicious amusement as Ron gestured to Daphne and said, "Hey, I've told them nothing." Ron then turned toward Harry and Hermione. "If you two want to know, ask her — she'll tell you if she wants."

Harry looked at Hermione. She was clearly as confused as he was.

Daphne chewed on her lip, apparently considering something. "I . . . er . . . uh, not right now. I'm not quite ready to tell either of you what I've done." Daphne looked at Ron, who blinked and shrugged.

"But you've told Ron?" Hermione pointed at the redhead with a skeptical look.

Daphne nodded. "He knows pretty much all about it."

Harry saw the troubled expression cross Hermione's face as she returned to her bowl.

"And, you made this for Ron at The Burrow?" Hermione asked into her spoon, bringing the sweetened bread up to her mouth.

Harry looked at Ron and Daphne with a raised eyebrow.

Daphne coughed a little as she stumbled over her words. "Erm . . . I did make it for him. Harry came downstairs a few times too. I didn't . . . well, I mean I didn't want to wake you up or anything . . ."

Harry swiveled his head back around to Hermione, who was still looking at her bowl. "No, no, Daphne. Nothing like that." Hermione glanced up at the other three. "I guess I'm . . . well, I'm just surprised is all." Hermione set her spoon down and folded her hands in front of her. "If you want to tell us, that's fine. I don't want to pressure you or anything. I guess . . ." Hermione rubbed the nail of her left thumb with the pads of her fingertips. "I'm curious, I admit . . . I don't think anyone here is in a position to judge you," Hermione said as she nodded toward Ron. "He's the one who'd be most hostile with you, and if he's okay with it—"

"Whoa there, Hermione. I told her I'm _not_ okay with that! I might understand it a _little _bit." Ron held up his right thumb and index finger in front of his face, as if he was going to pinch someone. "But you know where I stand with it, right Daphne?" Ron said. Daphne nodded and shrugged.

"He's made his opinions very clear." Daphne sighed and paused. After a few moments of silence, she started talking again. "Hermione, don't worry. I'm not harboring some secret crush on Ickle Ronniekins."

"Of course you're not . . . _hey!_" Ron huffed, once he realized Daphne had used his dreaded nickname.

Hermione snorted in exaggerated disbelief. "Oh no! Of course . . . I never, _ever _thought . . ."

Daphne merely leaned into the hand that rested on the table and rolled her eyes. "Hermione, you _did_ think I have a crush on your Ron, it's _so _ickly sweet that you'd feel such deep and abiding affection for the great oaf—"

"Oi! Watch it, Greengrass," Ron interjected.

"—but, quite unusual for you, you are so, so, _so_ _very_ . . . incredibly giganta-normously . . ." Daphne took a deep breath . . . "_WRRRRR-ONN-NNNG_!" Daphne sang in a light voice, index finger swinging in the air.

Harry and Ron both had to choke back a laugh. Hermione blushed and lowered her head, practically into her bowl.

"Okay, Daphne. You can tell us," Harry gestured to him and Hermione, "if _or_ when you're ready to. Oh, hey," Harry said, as if he was just remembering something, "the first Hogsmeade weekend should be coming up soon. Wanna come with us?"

Harry saw Daphne's small brown eyes alight as soon as he asked her, her surprise at Harry's invitation completely evident all over her face. Of course, what would come out of her mouth . . .

"Yeah, whatever. S'pose I've got nothing better to do. . . ."

. . . would probably be completely different.

Ron shifted uncomfortably. "Er, actually, Harry—"

Harry looked at him, and then looked at an equally nervous Hermione.

(_Oh, yeah_ . . .)

"Harry," Daphne said, giving him her most serious expression, "I think these two want something." She cocked her eyebrow at him and shifted her gaze toward the other two Gryffindors.

"I know! Whatever could it be?" Harry looked over at Ron and Hermione, scratching his chin with his index finger.

"Er, well . . ." Ron stuttered.

"Well, see Harry . . . we were wondering . . ." Hermione began.

"Daphne, I've got absolutely _no _idea whatsoever about what they want," Harry said in mock-frustration.

Daphne gave a huge, exaggerated shrug, her hands spread out wide in front of her.

Ron let out a huge breath and muttered:

"HermioneandIwanttogotoHogsmeadetogetherif . . . that'sokay . . ." Ron faded out.

Biting his knuckles, trying desperately to keep his laughter contained, Harry looked first at Ron, whose ears were positively on fire, to Hermione, who had her face in her hands with the tips of her ears reddening quite nicely.

Harry pounded his hands on the table, startling Ron and Hermione out of their embarrassment.

"I guess it'll just be you and me, Daf'!"

"Oi! Can it with the nickname, Potter!"

* * *

The next couple of weeks went _fairly_ smoothly for the trio and Daphne. Quidditch practices for Gryffindor were going so well for Harry that he remarked to Ron he could practically feel the Quidditch Cup in their hands.

"Although I'm glad that both of you are so happy about the quality of your team, it would do you no good to count your chickens before they hatch," Hermione warned sagely.

"Oh, _c'mon _Hermione. We're just basking in the glow of a team well-put together to kick those snake-bastards' arses!" Ron said, punching his fist in front of him. He turned and whispered to Harry, "now, if only your ruddy Keeper could _actually _keep the Quaffle out. . . ." and gave a sheepish grin to Harry, as if he were apologizing for his more weaker practices.

And it was true. Harry noticed that when Ron was "on" during practice, he could miss nothing. No Quaffle made it through the goals. . . .

It was when Ron would let one Quaffle in that he'd let the next one . . . or five . . . or _ten_ in. Harry knew it was all about his confidence; one mistake would make Ron less sure of himself.

Harry would just have to find a way to help Ron through it.

Ginny, however, was a different story on the Quidditch pitch. As good as she was filling in for Harry last year, Ginny was quite adept as Chaser. She was able to use the rather unpredictable Hogwarts Quidditch team brooms to full advantage, as she was very familiar with the behavior and temperament of each broomsticks.

When Harry complemented her on her talents (_Oh stuff it, willya?_ _I'm not flirting _. . . _Just letting her know she's appreciated!_), Ginny gave him a smile that melted his heart.

"Oh, the things you learn when you're used to flying second-hand broomsticks, Harry. They're like living creatures, broomsticks are. They each have a personality," Ginny said, as she held up the old school broom she had been practicing with.

"Oh, and what's that one's personality?" Harry asked, pointing at it. Ginny sighed.

"Well, today, it seemed to be competing with Ron in the 'Who's-The-Grouchier-Git' contest. Ron is winning spectacularly, of course," said Ginny dryly. "Still having troubles sleeping, eh?"

Harry shook his head for once. "The nightmares did spike up again a couple of weeks ago, true. But, well, to be quite honest, they seem to decreasing again. He did have one last night," Harry said, grimacing at the memory of running to Ron's bedside as his friend very nearly grabbed him in a chokehold. Dean and Seamus held Ron down as Neville got Pomfrey's Sleeping Draught down his throat.

Needless to say, it took approximately three glasses of water and one rambunctious Seamus jumping on his bed to get Ron up in the morning.

Classes were surprisingly good for Harry. Harry's work in Potions now put him at the top of his class, all thanks to the efforts of the Half-Blood Prince's textbook. The other day, Slughorn had complimented Harry's work on Phaedra's Plumot's Power-Increasing Potion.

"This is the strongest of the Strengthening Solution family . . . oh wonderful! Harry seems to have added oak and balsam extracts with . . . Is that a hint of vanilla? Why _10 points_ to Gryffindor!" Slughorn turned to the other Slytherins, Daphne included. "Don't be afraid of a little creativity like our young Mr. Potter over here. There is absolutely nothing wrong with thinking beyond the confines of your texts!"

When Slughorn had turned his back, Harry noticed a crude, animated drawing of him cross-eyed and picking his nose appearing on his parchment. Looking up, he saw Daphne sticking her tongue out at him and making a most unladylike hand gesture. Hermione didn't speak to him until dinner.

Harry had taken to carrying the book wherever he went, and, in the most Hermione-like manner, would take it out during free periods to devour the text, notes meticulously written in the margins.

"Whoever wrote all these notes in this book is an absolute genius. I mean, look at this stuff," he said to Ron during one evening in the Gryffindor common room. "Levicorpus. Nonverbal spells. The little details, like here . . . 'For the most tempestuous ingredients, such as Erumpent fluid, add up to four leaves of a soothing herb, such as sophohorous.'" Harry showed the margin notes to Ron. "He thought of everything!"

"_Oh,_ for heaven's sake!" Hermione practically slammed her quill down into her inkbottle. "Is it really _that_ hard to fathom that this so-called 'Half-Blood Prince' could be a girl? I mean, both Daphne and I make top marks in Potions."

"I dunno Hermione." Ron twirled his quill in his fingertips. "First, this Half-Blood Prince referred to himself as 'Prince', not 'Prin-_cess'_ and, second, I think Harry's got you and Daphne beat in the class by now."

Ron admitted just before they went to bed that night telling _that_ to Hermione probably wasn't the smartest move he could've made, given that she stormed off to bed in a very dark mood.

"First, girls tell you they _want_ you to be honest with 'em . . . and then when you are, they get all huffy!" Ron said in exasperation. "I'm not a bloody mind-reader," he finished in a rather grumpy tone.

Harry could only shrug in agreement.

Snape, the greasy prat, continued to annoy Harry and Ron in Defense Against the Dark Arts; however, Harry couldn't help feeling after a few classes, that he had been one of the better choices for the position. His lectures, although certainly _creepy_, given the smarmy, silky tone of his voice, were extremely informative.

Perhaps, too informative?

"Well, of _course _the git's a good teacher — he _knows,_" Ron said, pointing at his head with a knowing expression, "he knows all that Death Eater shite. Still practices it, I reckon."

Hermione swatted at his arm in annoyance. "Ron! That's a horrible accusation. You know perfectly well Dumbledore wouldn't agree—"

"_Hermione_," Ron interrupted. Harry cringed. Ron had got much better with controlling his words and temperament with Hermione, even letting her vent steam at him every once in a while when she'd seem to get particularly testy. It had been something Ron was working on all summer.

Although, right now, Ron looked like he was getting more and more annoyed. Harry thought it was due in part to another restless night of no sleep and waking up with no appetite.

"Just because bloody Dumbledore's the bloody leader on our side doesn't mean he can't be a piss-poor judge of character or fuck up every once in a while." Ron shook his head and crossed his arms, counting off each of his next points with his right hand. "He's not all-powerful, he's not all-knowing, no matter how twinkly or whatever his blue eyes get. He's still as human as we are." Ron spoke in short, clipped tones that allowed no argument.

Unfortunately, Hermione didn't get the memo.

"Oh, just because he doesn't tell you _his_ _reasons_ for trusting Professor Snape means he's messed up or something?" she snapped at Ron, her voice filled with sarcasm. "So _sure_ of yourself, aren't we?"

"Wha' the bloody hell, Hermione?" Ron threw his arms open wide, completely flummoxed. "All I said was—"

"What about Daphne, hmm, _Ronald_?" Hermione spoke, moving her head left and right, arms crossed, and looking positively dangerous, with her brown eyes thinning into small slits. "You can't trust Snape when he has Dumbledore backing everything he's doing and trusting him implicitly, but you can trust Daphne, just like that?" She snapped her fingers. "That's just wonderful! I guess we can all see where your motivations lie." Hermione glowered, stomping off to the girls' dormitory.

Ron was stunned into silence.

"Can you tell me what that's all about, Harry? Because seriously, I'm tired, cranky, and bloody confused as I'll ever get out."

Harry could only roll his eyes. "Mate," he said, slapping Ron on his back, "I think Hermione's jealous."

"She's _jealous_? Of _Daphne Greengrass_? Why in the name of Godric's hairy arse would she be even remotely concerned about Daphne?" Ron shook his head, practically laughing at the absurdity of the situation. "I mean, Daphne's just our . . . our," he waved his hand back and forth, gesturing between them. "She's our, y'know, our—"

"Friend, Ron? Are you trying for the word 'friend'?"

"Yeah! Well, actually, no. I mean, I dunno. I kinda think of her as something else, too."

Harry's heart stopped.

(_No_ . . ._ he couldn't possibly mean_ . . . _no way_ . . . _Hermione couldn't actually have been right . . . could she?_)

Ron held his hands up, stopping Harry in mid-thought. "Whoa, Potter. Don't get ahead of yourself here. I mean, Daphne's, well — I've started kinda rooting for her to make the right decisions. If she can't make the 'right' decisions, then I'll settle for her making the right decision for the situation, to do what she needs to do. I worry that she's gonna go and do something stupid. I worry about her well being too, I mean, how is she doing in Slytherin with all those bastards looking for a piece of her? I worry that she'll mess up and will go down some rotten, awful path. But it's more . . . kinda how I see and worry about Ginny, okay? I've never actually thought of Daphne as anything but another sister."

Harry let out a sigh of relief, smiling at his friend. "So, Daphne's your sister, huh?"

Ron shrugged. "I guess I sort of see Daphne as my chance to 'save Ginny'."

"Wait . . . come again?"

Ron exhaled. "Wait. You _don't _remember _that _little adventure? Okay, to recap: you, Harry 'The Chosen One' Potter, saved Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets our second year. I, Ron 'Prat Extraordinare' Weasley got trapped behind with Lockhart. I didn't even catch that You-Know-Who scrambled around in Ginny's brains until it was too late!"

(_What a bloody, stupid, stubborn idiot! None of that is his fault!_)

"Ron, none of that—"

"Yeah, yeah, none of my fault and all that rubbish," Ron said dismissively, waving his hand impatiently at Harry. "Doesn't matter. With Daphne, it kinda feels like I've got this second chance. I mean," Ron started, "I hope she doesn't go all dark and 'Slytherin-y', but if she is tempted or whatever . . ." Ron trailed off, shrugging his shoulders. "Maybe she won't if we're actually there for her."

Harry nodded. Looking just behind Ron's shoulder, he noticed that they had had an eavesdropper for the majority of their conversation. He gestured at Ron to turn around.

Hermione stood with her head lowered, twiddling with her fingertips. "Er, Ron," Hermione spoke softly, "I-I'm . . . sorry. I sh-shouldn't have—" Hermione's breathing increased until she sounded almost like she was slightly hyperventilating.

Harry and Ron both took an opportunity to gawp at their friend and Ron's—

(_Er . . . what in the world are they now?_)

"I'm really sorry, Ron. I sort of let—" Hermione gestured to her head with her hand, looking up to the ceiling, "I let my brain get ahead of me. I shouldn't jump to conclusions like that." Hermione returned her focus back to Ron.

Harry watched as a smile spread across Ron's face, and his best friend leaned forward to gently kiss his _other_ best friend on the lips.

"_Whoo-hooo_!"

"Get 'er, Weasley!"

"Hey, ladies and gents . . . we've got ourselves a show!"

Ron glared around the common room at Seamus and Dean, who lead some fourth, fifth and sixth years in catcalls and scattered applause.

"Oi! Not a bloody word—" Ron started.

"Or we'll make sure the professors know about _all_ the little nooks and crannies that you've _explored_ here . . . and I'm not _just_ talking about the broom closets, Seamus. That goes for any of you!" Hermione pointed her wand at each of the Gryffindors, whose smug smiles quickly turned into frowns. Nodding once, Hermione tucked her wand under her robes, and turned back to Harry and Ron, who both had identical awed and approving expressions on their faces.

Thank Godric for that Map, Harry," Hermione whispered, with a wink.

* * *

Despite the sneers from Snape, and Ron's occasional nightmares, Hogwarts attempted to function as normally as possible in the dark times. Even though the students remained relatively untouched by the external events transpiring in the wizarding world, every once in a while, a stark reminder of the ever-present darkness would mar everyday student life.

The first wave of werewolf attacks hit The Daily Prophet, although it was in the form of a brief blurb that appeared deep inside the newspaper, far away from the first few pages. During the first two weeks, the Patil twins' parents tried, unsuccessfully, to pull the sisters out of Hogwarts. Eloise Midgen's parents tried to convince her to leave as well, but Blaise Zabini interceded. With his promises and family's status backing up her arguments to her family, Eloise convinced her family to let her stay.

Hannah Abbott, however, lost her mother just before the end of September.

"She's not the only one whose family has suffered from the attacks. That second-year Ravenclaw — Noah Strombridge, I think — Professor Flitwick informed him yesterday that his father and younger brother were both killed," Hermione whispered at breakfast a few days before the first Hogsmeade visit.

Neither Ron nor Harry could say anything as to these revelations.

That evening, during a game of Wizard's chess while Hermione studied, Ron leaned towards Harry. "So, what d'you reckon? You talked to Dumbledore about starting up the DA again." Ron leaned back. "Seems like it might be a good idea what with all this Dark Arts stuff goin' on 'round us."

Harry pondered this. He had honestly not thought about the DA since Dumbledore brought him to the Burrow. Given the most recent news, Harry considered that the time was ripe for the DA. However, with Snape as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, would Harry have to get his approval to continue on with the sessions? Could Harry simply call meetings on his own like before?

And, despite the current events in the wizarding world, would people _want_ to come? Wouldn't starting up the DA again force the children and the teenagers that roamed the grounds of Hogwarts back into the awful reality that they were in the middle of a war?

It was easy enough to live in the castle and not confront the harsh realities of the outside world. The students did this every day. Harry would sometimes pause during a meal in the Great Hall or in the midst of a game of wizard's chess in the common room to look at the smiling, laughing faces of the other students around him. He had even caught himself on numerous occasions briefly forgetting about the conflict out _there. _

Harry knew it existed, he knew it was taking place. But it wasn't consuming the everyday. He thought not only about his task and the prophecy, but about Ginny, about eventually beating Ron at chess, about the Chaser formations for their first Quidditch game of the season.

The war could be easily ignored . . . almost.

(_Except if you're Susan Bones or Hannah Abbott_ . . .)

His brow now creased and troubled, Harry turned his attention back to his knight, which was currently being savaged by Ron's queen.

* * *

The second Saturday of October approached, and with it, came the first Hogsmeade visit.

The trio walked as a group to breakfast that morning. Ginny and Dean were already seated at the table. Harry chanced a quick glance toward Ron's sister. She flashed him a small, coy smile that Harry felt utterly compelled to return.

Which he did . . . .

. . . with a stomach full of butterflies.

(_And in front of her boyfriend Potter!_)

(_Hey! Pipe down, willya?_)

Harry's eyes moved quickly to the teacher table. He had hoped to see Dumbledore sitting at the head of the table today. Alas, Harry saw, it was not meant to be. Dumbledore appeared to be absent . . . yet again. It seemed to be as commonplace as Malfoy being a complete arse that Dumbledore was continually absent. Harry had not so much heard a word from the Headmaster since their first lesson, and the memory plus the conversation immediately following it continued to haunt him. . . .

Turning back to the entrance, Harry saw Daphne strolling in, trailing behind a group of seventh-year Slytherins and Blaise Zabini, who walked in holding Eloise Midgen's hand. Harry noticed that Zabini quickly glanced toward the direction of the Ravenclaw table. The Head Boy from Ravenclaw, a fellow Harry recognized as Eddie Carmichael, stood up abruptly, and with a purposeful walk, strode directly into the arrogant path of Eloise and Zabini.

One could actually hear the impact as the two boys' chests collided with each other.

"Pardon me, _Zabini_!" Eddie Carmichael said in a tone that was clearly unapologetic.

"Watch where you're going, Carmichael!"

"How about I watch where you take this little attitude of yours, Zabini. Along with your little slag . . ."

"You piece of shit—"

"_Is _there a problem, _gent_-lemen?" Snape glided in quite bat-like, his black robes billowing behind him. He made his way over to the potential skirmish. Professor Flitwick walked quickly behind him, his far-shorter legs moving more adeptly and quickly than Harry would have expected.

He saw Daphne, head bowed, purposefully looking away from where Zabini and Eddie stood. She made a direct beeline for the Gryffindor table, shooting Colin Creevey furtive looks and sat next to Ron, who leaned over and whispered something to her. Daphne listened, and nodded once, before responding, deftly grabbing a piece of toast, and sneaking back toward the Slytherin table, all while giving as wide a berth as possible from Eddie Carmichael and Blaise Zabini, locked in a silent contest of staring the other boy down, even in front of the ominous Snape.

Although he wasn't as book-smart as Hermione Granger, Harry had always been rather keen in putting together information as he gathered it within his environment. Add in his over-developed sense of curiosity for the particularly rash and/or dangerous mystery, and Harry fancied himself quite the detective.

"For whatever reason, that little display had something to do with what you know about Daphne, doesn't it, Ron?"

His best friend's pursed-lipped silence and continued stabbing at a runaway sausage on his plate assured Harry that he was on the right track.

After reluctantly bidding Ginny farewell as she met up with Dean (_the stupid prat_), the three Gryffindors and Daphne made their way to the outskirts of Hogsmeade.

"Er," Ron mumbled. Harry and Daphne turned around, slowly. . . .

"Yes?" Harry raised one eyebrow at Ron and Hermione.

"Well," Ron spoke, looking at Hermione and pointing a finger between him and her, "we were going . . . to . . . er, go . . ."

"Where, exactly, were you two going to go?" Daphne asked, her brow cocked and loaded with suppressed amusement.

Hermione spoke up, eyes planted firmly on the ground, voice much higher-pitched than normal, "We're going to just, you know . . . go here . . . go there," she squeaked.

Harry and Daphne just looked at each other, smirking. "Here? There?" Daphne said sardonically. "Well, give Puddifoot's our best!" Wriggling their eyebrows practically in unison, Harry and Daphne turned their backs and waved at Ron and Hermione's ever-reddening faces.

"At some point in the future, they _will_ admit they're actually together, right?" Daphne deadpanned.

Harry could only smile and snigger at Daphne's observation.

"Daphne, this is Ron and Hermione that we're talking about. They are the _master_ and _mistress_ of denial. If any two people can walk around and function normally while ignoring the obvious, it's them." Harry jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Daphne nodded. "So, Harry. It's just you and me."

"And what wonderful company to be in!"

Harry saw Daphne blush slightly.

"Have you given any more thought about Dumbledore's Army?" Daphne asked after a heartbeat . . . and a small cough.

Harry couldn't help but frown a little. "Er . . . a little. I . . . well, what do you think? You think that starting the DA back up with Snape as our Defense Professor is a good idea?"

Daphne creased her brow. "Why? Do you think it's a bad idea, Harry?"

Harry could only shrug. "It _did_ seem to be useful last year, when we weren't learning anything from Umbridge—"

"Right old Fart in a Mitten, she was." Harry chuckled. Daphne's description _was_ rather appropriate.

"Yeah. But now, we actually do have a proper Defense teacher, as much as I _hate_ to admit it," Harry said, both sheepish and annoyed, especially when looking at Daphne's rather smug face, "I mean, is it really necessary since we _do_ actually use magic in class? Would it be an 'officially sanctioned Hogwarts study group'? Would Snape come in to give us helpful hints and pointers with a smile and a spring in his step?"

Daphne snorted humorously. "As much as I admire him, seeing Professor Snape in a mood that didn't consist of glowering, indifference or perpetual hatred of all things Harry Potter would be a great surprise."

They had just strolled past The Three Broomsticks, and were hoping to beat the typical rush into Honeydukes, but they were out of luck. It appeared that half of Hogwarts had decided to pack themselves into the modestly-sized candy and treat store, with nary any room for a bowtruckle to breathe.

"Sweet Merlin! I've never seen Honeydukes so bloody packed!" Daphne exclaimed.

Harry immediately saw the reason. Looking around the village, he saw that most of the stores had gone dark, with their windows and doors boarded up and signs posted around with messages that ranged from "CLOSED INDEFINITELY" to "Owners Taking Leave Of Absence . . ." accompanied by some short message with some non-war-related excuse that clearly telegraphed that the store owners had got the hell out of Hogsmeade before things really deteriorated.

Allowing some time for Honeydukes to clear out, Daphne and Harry made their way first to Dervish and Banges to examine what new magical devices were in stock. Harry couldn't help but look at some of the Defensive instruments and comparing them to the creative ventures of the Weasley twins and seeking inspiration for any potential DA sessions, Daphne and his conversation still fresh on his mind. While perusing the store's stock of supplies, Harry and Daphne ran into Terry Boot and Michael Corner. Making some polite small talk with the two Ravenclaws, Harry couldn't help noticing the furtive looks and small grins Michael Corner shot towards Daphne . . . and Daphne herself blushing at the attention.

They managed to avoid nearly crashing into Ron and Hermione as the new couple stumbled out of Scrivenshaft's. The sight of Ron's bored face and Hermione's glowing expression at her purchase of a brand new Eagle feather quill caused both Harry and Daphne to double over in silent, gleeful laughter, which turned to affectionate mocking of Ron and Hermione, as the latter kissed the redhead directly on his lips.

Harry noticed the grin on Ron's blushing face seemed to be stuck on permanently, as it never once faltered.

Harry and Daphne eventually made their way into Honeydukes, where they had to deal with many of the students' shocked glances and rude comments about Harry's choice of friends. Fed up with the rumblings among their peers, Daphne stormed out of the shop, brow rigid with furious temper.

"Hey," Harry spoke, attempting to soothe her, "why don't we go to The Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer, eh?"

When there was no response, Harry tried again.

"Daphne, never mind them. You haven't before. Just enjoy the rest of the day, and let them all be, okay?"

Daphne mumbled something about elongating the whole lot's tongues and tying them around their necks ("It'll bloody serve them right to hang on their own words!" . . . to which Harry huffed out a remonstrative "Daphne!") as she followed Harry into the popular hangout for students and teachers. They were sidelined briefly as Harry spied Mundungus Fletcher with a number of items he had previously known to be at 12 Grimmauld Place. He became so enraged, he shook Mundungus by the collar, threatening him with bodily harm if he ever so much thought about continuing that behavior.

"THESE ARE MY THINGS! You call yourself one of Dumbledore's allies . . . You keep nicking my shit . . . _Sirius'_ shit!" Harry could only yell until Mundungus stumbled away, startled and speechless. The crook said nothing and Apparated to parts unknown.

Shutting his eyes tight, Harry calmed himself down enough to enter the Three Broomsticks less furious and more hacked off with the dodgy Order member.

"HARRY! DAPHNE!" They turned at the sound of Ron's voice, yelling loud, clear and strong over the rambunctious din. Fighting through the crowd and snagging butterbeers for them, Harry and Daphne took seats across from Ron and Hermione. Harry felt quite a bit lighter as he looked at the smiling faces of his two best friends.

"Mate, I'm tellin' ya, Hogsmeade was a right disappointment! I mean, present company excluded, of course," Ron said, gesturing grandly toward a shyly smiling Hermione. "But, really, we could've played around the common room, or gone down to Hagrid's—"

"Seriously, what is it with that half-bred giant idiot that has you lot fawning over him so?'

Harry closed his eyes, rolling them behind his eyelids.

(_Patience Potter_ . . . _practice infinite patience_ . . .)

"Guys," he said, holding a hand up to quiet Ron and Hermione. Harry turned to Daphne and said, slowly but precisely, "Daphne, Hagrid was the person Dumbledore sent to tell me I was a wizard. For me," Harry said, fingers tented on his chest, "he's my first personal connection to the wizarding world. Ron," Harry pointed to him, "is my second, and Hermione's my third. So, if you have anything to say about Hagrid, you better think long and hard about how you phrase it."

Ron, to Harry's surprise, nodded and spoke evenly. "Seriously, Daphne, Hagrid means a lot to Harry," Ron stared at her pointedly and aimed his index finger practically between her eyes, "so it would be very much appreciated if you could _not _refer to Hagrid as . . . well, as everything you just said." Ron's expression eased. "Just think of him as a really, really, _really_ tall bloke . . . that happens to like animals that would consider us four square meals."

Daphne sat silently for a moment, shrugging once.

"I'll try, okay? I've just heard so much about what a great, fat, stupid oaf he is . . ."

"He's not, Daphne." It was Hermione's turn. "Hagrid's our friend, and we don't take kindly to _anyone _saying anything bad about him." Hermione took a swig of her butterbeer, setting it down on the table with finality.

"Why, Harry Potter!" Harry jumped as Slughorn gave a sharp, but enthusiastic smack on his back. "We've missed you at our last Slug Club meeting. You too, Miss Granger." Hermione stared at her butterbeer; Ron glowered at the Potions Professor. "You both must join us at our next meeting! I have assurances that one Gwenog Jones, formerly of the Holyhead Harpies will be there! Next Saturday, eight o'clock. Harry. Miss Granger." Slughorn bowed to the two Gryffindors only, taking no note of Ron or Daphne.

Until . . .

"Oh, why Miss Greengrass! I didn't see you there." Slughorn considered her for a moment. "Well, good day to you as well," he said, just a bit awkwardly, and walked away from their table.

"That was absolutely rude," Hermione said. "He addressed Daphne, but didn't even give her an invitation. And not even speaking to you," she turned to Ron, who pouted and mumbled into his sip of butterbeer. Daphne simply scowled and stared at the wall in front of her.

Several moments of awkward silence passed, with Harry squirming and searching for something to say to lighten both Ron and Daphne's darkening moods.

"Oh, I'm tired." Harry stretched and faked a yawn. "Head back, yeah?" He looked at his companions, each with their own expressions of worry and anger all over their faces. Draining the last drops of butterbeer from their bottles, the four students walked out of the pub, trailing behind only Katie Bell and Leanne Andrews, another Gryffindor seventh-year.

The two were clearly locked in some sort of argument. Katie walked stiffly, with wide, purposeful steps. Leanne was practically shouting at her, trying to get her to stop.

"L-Leave it, Leanne." The four students could hear Katie's voice, sounding strangely far away, as if not connected with the rest of her body.

"No, I won't just leave it, Katie. I want to know where you got this . . ."

"I have to take it back to the castle. He'll know what to do with it . . ."

Leanne and Katie started wrestling with what looked like a small parcel of brown paper. The girls were pulling on the package until the object inside fell out.

Suddenly, without warning, Katie's eyes closed. An eerie glow spread over her body. Arms outstretched, Katie suddenly rose off the ground, six feet into the air.

Harry was transfixed at the sight. The Gryffindor Chaser looked ghostly, calm — her hair lashed about her face in the cool October wind.

Katie's eyes flashed open. A bloodcurdling scream rent the air.

The four students ran toward the flailing, levitating girl, pulling desperately on her to get her to land. Leanne stood, unmoving, frozen in utter shock.

Ron and Harry managed to bring Katie down from the air. Hermione and Daphne held onto the girl's arms as Ron pinned down her legs to keep her from flying back up into the air or hurting herself.

Harry had already started running towards the castle, desperate to find a teacher — or anyone — who could help him.

Who else would he find, but Rubeus Hagrid, chopping wood in front of his hut . . .

* * *

**A/N: **"Baboons brandishing wands" is adapted from Seamus' lines given by Flitwick in HBP and from McGonagall's dance lesson in GOF the movie.

I never found a proper last name for Katie's friend Leanne . . . if there is one, please let me know.


	16. Chapter 15: The Eagle’s Favor

**A/N: **Thanks to stella8h8chang for your editing of this chapter. Hope you know how much your help is appreciated!

Rated T for strong language. I own nothing.

**

* * *

Chapter 15: The Eagle's Favor and the Phoenix's Regrets**

"_Oh_! I don't believe this," Hermione breathed out in a huff. She rubbed her eyes, tired from pouring over various Potion and Draughts texts.

For the past week, they — meaning Ron, Hermione and Harry — had hit the books in earnest, following what happened with Katie Bell after Hogsmeade. Daphne joined them when she could, although she seemed to have her hands full with her studies ("How many classes is she actually _taking_?" Hermione had asked Ron and Harry after a couple of days) and Dumbledore's Slytherin project.

The trio certainly had to admit that Daphne's quick tutorial with the Dual Dialogue Charm made communication between the Gryffindor common rooms and the library and restricted sections far easier. Hermione was able to communicate with Harry and Ron (and Daphne, when she'd have a spare moment to assist) via quick messages over parchments about which books were necessary and which ones weren't.

After dinner on Thursday, they had agreed to meet up in the library to rake over the reference books . . . once again.

And, just like every other time . . .

"There's nothing, _absolutely nothing_ about Raspy's Bane anywhere! Not in _Most Potente Potions_, not in _Advanced Potion-Making_, not in _Elder Eldridge Eubanks' Enormous Encyclopedia of Potions and Draughts_. . . ." She slammed the book she had open shut, and pulled her hair back as if creating a ponytail.

"What about other fluids with magical properties? Draughts, drafts, ointments, salves—" Daphne interjected wearily.

"Why would a 'good' Dark Arts entrepreneur like Borgin mess around with medicinal or healing wares?" Ron asked.

"Well, if I'm thinking what Daphne's thinking," Hermione said carefully, "in the Muggle world, many people become addicted to medicines and drugs. It's not unreasonable to think that maybe Borgin also trades in these areas to make a bit of extra money by supplying both addicts and dealers. Am I right, Daphne?"

"Something like that, Hermione," Daphne said mildly.

"Well, since we're on that track, have we considered poisons or magic toxins?" Harry inquired.

Hermione bustled out of her chair. "No, Harry. No we didn't consider those yet. . . ." she trailed off, gathering a number of books to return to the restricted section. Ron scurried after her, apparently to help her carry the teetering tower of books back to be reshelved and to pull a whole other selection of books out.

Harry leaned back in his chair. Rubbing her eyes and drenched in absolute fatigue, Daphne rested her head on her arms and leaned over the table.

"You doing okay there?"

Daphne shrugged languidly. "Well, I've probably been _more _awake and I feel like I'm being pulled in a million different directions by a million different people asking a _billion _different things from me, but yeah, I'm doing fine." Daphne lopsidedly grinned at Harry.

Harry merely chuckled.

"You need anything? I can look here in the regular, 'kiddie' section for some other books that we could use."

"Yeah," Harry said absently, rubbing his eyes. "Whatever you can find. . . ."

Daphne's jaw twitched as she looked at Harry and rose from the table.

Daphne had just reached the Potions section in the Library's main collection. Perusing the books for anything relating to poisons or magical toxins, Daphne reached up for _Perseus Polyops' Poisons and Toxins Omnibus_, 6th Complete Edition, with a New Audible Forward-Note. . . .

A hand clamped over her mouth from behind, pulling Daphne into a corner of the library. Strong, long arms surrounded her and pinned hers down tightly to her side.

Whoever was holding Daphne dropped her into a dark study cubicle while she kicked and screamed in a futile attempt to gain freedom. The door shut behind her, and she knew instantly that the person who took her was inside the small space as well. She immediately grabbed her wand and spun around, only to be faced by--

"_Carmicha__el?!_"

Eddie raised his hands, showing he was unarmed. "I'm not going to hurt you or anything, Greengrass. I just needed to talk to you."

"The _fucking_ hell was all that out there? I just about shat myself—" Daphne brought her hand to her chest. She could barely breathe; her adrenaline coursed through her veins and her heart felt like it was going to explode.

"Yeah, yeah. That was bad and not necessary, I know," Eddie said. "Still a bit furious about the whole _blackmail_ thing, if I'm being honest." The Ravenclaw glared fiercely at her.

Daphne lowered her wand hand. "Understood. Well," she said, pocketing her wand, "you went to all this trouble. Talk." She hoped she was returning the same glare with a thousand times more vitriol than Eddie's.

Eddie snorted. "Seriously, how you can sound so high and mighty when _you're _the one going after _my_ money completely astounds me." Shaking his head and inhaling a big breath, Eddie chewed on his lip for a moment. He looked away from Daphne.

Although she was not close to Eddie, and, in fact, strongly suspected Eddie despised the living shit out her because of her little scheme, Daphne could palpably sense his nervousness, his anxiety with whatever matter was at hand. His dark, curly hair, usually so well coiffed, was a messy bed of tangles. He had quite the well-defined features for his age of seventeen; right now, however, all Daphne could actually see were beads of sweat accumulating under his very Romanesque nose.

Hands fisted on his hips, Eddie started talking.

"There's no need to beat around the bush here, so I'll just come right out and say it. You obviously know the true nature of my relationship with Blaise."

Daphne knotted her brow in confusion. She nodded.

"Look, I've got . . . okay, no one else knows about us, and," Eddie looked like he was gritting his teeth as he talked, "as much as I'm trying to resist hexing your buttocks off, I've got no one else to talk to about this." Eddie looked at Daphne and spoke in his rich, deep voice, "I think — er, I mean that _I_ . . . I _am_ in love with him."

Daphne couldn't help her eyes bulge out in shock.

(_Oh! Damn you're an arse, Greengrass!_)

"Since you ambushed us, Blaise has started avoiding me in favor of more _feminine _company. Oh, you've seen him around with Eloise, holding her hand everywhere, gallantly stepping up to assure her family that he'll 'protect' her. . . ." Eddie snorted in disgust. "It's all just show. He's desperate for a 'suitable' companion—"

"You mean, one that Mummy and her fortune will approve of . . . even though Midge is a half-blood, and would thus reduce him to a blood traitor."

Eddie ruefully laughed. "I went and fell for a bastard of a Slytherin, didn't I?" He looked at his hands. "I find that, even if he's pushing me away, I still want him." Eddie met Daphne's eyes. "I know he feels the same for me, but those feelings are inconvenient for the grand plan of his life. I wish — God, _Sweet_ _Merlin_, how do I wish . . . that even if our relationship never gets back on the same field it was before, I . . . I just want him safe . . . and not associating or fighting with _them_!"

Daphne was confused.

"What do you mean, 'fight with them' or 'associate with them'? Zabini isn't one to get his hands dirty. . . ."

"You don't know that for sure, Greengrass. I'm sure you've heard him as well, talking all that pure-blood superiority nonsense. He can sound like one of _them_ sometimes. _His _followers. I've spoken to him, trying to change his mind about all of that. But he's so damn _stubborn_ sometimes. What I'm afraid of," Eddie said after a beat, "I'm afraid that when the fight comes, when the battle starts — because I don't know about you, but my family saw what happened during that first war — when people are asked to pick sides, I have a bad feeling about which side Blaise'll choose."

"Eddie, I really hate to be the one to break it to you, but _we are at war_!" she cried out, cupping her mouth with her hands as a crude bullhorn. She cringed as she saw Eddie noticeably flinch. "It's inevitable. People will die, or get hurt, or maimed, or . . . _whatever_! Doesn't matter if they're fighting or not. Look at what happened with that Bell girl in Hogsmeade. Don't tell me you don't think that's not related somehow to everything that's going on outside our warm little castle."

Eddie paced over what little distance was available in the cubicle, blinking rapidly at the ground for a moment before finally turning toward Daphne, his dark eyes just a bit wild. "It's even more than that, Greengrass." He looked at her with two very sad eyes. "I just . . . he needs to change his mind about the way things are. I've tried everything, but I don't know why he continues to stubbornly cling to the old ways." Eddie ruffled his hair roughly and gave two quick, deep breaths. "I'm willing to pay you double our agreed-upon price, if you can get him to change his mind about pure-blood superiority."

Daphne could only stare at him. "Why me?"

Eddie snorted in disbelief. "You're serious? Why _not_ you? You're in tight with Potter and his gang. You've fought with them, you clearly believe in Potter's fight against You-Know-Who. And," Eddie looked at her with an expression of reluctant awe, "you've proven willing to do just about anything to get your way."

Daphne groaned.

(_God! Did Dumbledore put him up to this?_)

"Seriously, is this 'Eddie Carmichael' talking? Did somebody — _anybody _— put you up to this?"

"Would you do this? For another 650 Galleons? That would make your haul—"

"1300. I can do the math, Carmichael."

Carmichael fished through his robes. "Look, here's the 160 Galleons for this month's payment. Early arrival — hopefully to demonstrate my goodwill. If you agree to this, we'll extend the plan to another four months." He handed her a bag heavy with coins. She took it, fingering the velvety soft deep-blue fabric and the binding sealing the bag.

"What you're asking me to do," Daphne spoke in a low voice, "you're asking me to force somebody to change their mind about their most fundamental beliefs. Zabini, lest you forget, already hates me because of the blackmailing scheme that started this whole . . . _thing_ to begin with. He's not going to trust me enough to open up and listen to anything I have to say. . . ."

"Greengrass, it's painfully obvious," Eddie droned, "if you want something bad enough, you'll find a way to make it happen."

Daphne swallowed. Once again, someone was requesting that she persuade someone to change their entire perception about life and everything that they know, when her own position seemed to change as often as she changed her knickers.

"Eddie," Daphne said awkwardly, clearing her throat, ". . . er, does it seem smart to start paying me immediately for this particular service, seeing as how it's contingent on Zabini growing a brain and brass bollocks _and_ admitting Harry's not full of shit?"

A combination of emotions rushed over Eddie's face, among them befuddlement and frustration. "Well, I've not done this before! You're the one with the experience blackmailing people."

Daphne breathed out in a whistle. Her hands squarely resting on her waist, she blinked twice in a purposeful manner. "I'll take 325 Galleons in January. I'll at least start talking with Zab- . . ." she closed her eyes, huffed out a breath and gritted her teeth, "I mean _Blaise_, between now and then and see how much progress I can make." Daphne stuffed her little incredulous laugh down her throat.

"If you can just try is all I'm really asking for."

Daphne barely managed to restrain herself from cuffing him squarely in the stomach.

(_Apparently, if I had a Knut for every time someone asked me that, I wouldn't need to bloody blackmail _anybody!)

* * *

The following Friday evening, Harry once again found himself in Dumbledore's office . . . once again to travel into the Headmaster's Pensieve . . . and once again trying to convince the Headmaster about all the evidence that they (_kind of_) had against Malfoy.

(_Dammit! Won't anyone listen to me about the stupid Blond RattyFerret-HeadedFuckFace Junior Death Eater?!_)

"Harry," Dumbledore's tone was unusually severe, "I shall only tell you this one final time. The professors and Aurors that are currently patrolling Hogwarts are on the highest alert. The only matter that should be pressing on you is what we discuss in this office."

Harry kicked at the floor in protest. It was a small kick, but he hoped it had some sort of impact.

Looking back up at the Headmaster, Harry saw Dumbledore's face soften; the old man lowered his head toward him, the twinkle returning to his bright blue eyes.

"Of course Harry, I would never think of preventing you from fully enjoying your duties as Quidditch Captain, or from finally accepting Professor Slughorn's invitation to one of his _unique_ 'Slug Club' gatherings." Dumbledore gave him a smile.

"Harry, I want you to enjoy this time of your life as much as possible. You deserve, my dear boy, as do all that come to Hogwarts to learn, to enjoy the frivolities of youth. There will come a time in the future — and you _will_ know when that time comes — to take up arms and fight. But for now, Harry, just _live_. Be a teenager. Enjoy the company of your friends. You will find that those times can be a force of power for yourself when you go forth into battle."

Harry sat back in his chair, only slightly mollified.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Well, since we have cleared the air between us, we may begin perusing this particular memory. It concerns Tom's childhood, and I do believe it is integral to learning how Tom's mind works, particularly in the context of what you need to do to defeat him."

"And, um . . . sir, that is doing _what_, exactly?"

"Harry, I assure you, there is a time and place for everything, including learning the exact details which will help you to bring down Voldemort once and for all."

(_Does that include finding the _absolute_ right time to tell me all about the hand that looks like Death?_)

Dumbledore chuckled once again, as if he was reading Harry's mind.

"Er . . . whose memory is this one, Professor?" Harry asked, a bit uncomfortably.

"Why, it's mine!" Dumbledore admitted brightly.

Together, they jumped into the stone basin.

* * *

They had finished stepping out of Dumbledore's Pensieve and had already gone over the memory with a fine-tooth comb.

Tom Riddle grew up in an orphanage,

Tom Riddle stole from other children.

Tom Riddle used his magic to hurt others.

Tom Riddle was a right moody little fucker growing up.

(_Why am I getting this weird sense of déja vu?_)

"I see you are in quite the pensive mood, Harry," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile.

"I-I just . . . I understand why you showed me that particular memory, even if we don't have all the information yet or anything, but," Harry pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and swallowed, "I can't shake this feeling that some of that memory feels . . . familiar, Professor?"

"Believe me, Harry, I know far better than _you_ know." Dumbledore took a seat on the couch he had conjured and on which Harry was currently sitting; this time, the couch was made of purple velvet with constellations and galaxies in constant motion. Harry could see the fatigue, the wear of life and time hanging on the old wizard's frame, weighing him down as he bent into the couch to find the best possible comfort.

"Harry, I shall tell you why I felt the same sense of familiarity that is perhaps coursing through you at this very moment . . . if you'll permit me."

Harry nodded, anxious to see if the Headmaster could help him understand why he had this odd tingling at the back of his neck. . . .

"In the middle of the last decade, I encountered a young orphan while I was researching Tom Riddle's youth. This individual, although seven-years-old at the time, was already exhibiting many of the same qualities as the young Mr. Riddle that you saw tonight. _They_," Dumbledore emphasized the impersonal pronoun, "did similar things that you heard Tom do to those other children. This child would steal, use their magic against the other children, would refuse or be completely unable to form lasting relationships with their peers." The Headmaster looked at the floor. "They had no family, Harry. Having chosen a life of Muggle substances and drink, this child's mother, a witch named Margaret, died shortly after giving birth. There was no father listed on the birth certificate, and Child Protective Services was never able to verify his identity.

"The child was moved from home to home; it seemed that each foster family became scared and unsure when the child's magical powers started manifesting. During this time, the Ministry was still going through the arduous process of reconstruction and reconfiguration from the first war, and many of the more unfortunate members of our society fell through the cracks. As soon as I was apprised of this youngster's situation, I was able to assist the CPS via a Muggle liaison in finding a home with a Squib woman who happened to be a foster mother."

Harry realized that Dumbledore had stopped talking. Possibly because the old wizard, astute as ever at his age, had just noticed Harry's mouth and eyes widen.

That persnickety sense of déja vu fell on Harry like a two-ton troll, as the long conversations from last year pushed to the front of his brain.

"_Daphne_," he whispered. "You mean Daphne, don't you, sir?"

Dumbledore said nothing, but merely gazed at Harry.

Harry spoke, but distantly, as if he were the only person in the room. "You looked at her history and you saw the similarities between her and Riddle. Her life mirrored Riddle's so much that you kept your eye out on her until she made it to Hogwarts." Harry looked at Dumbledore finally. "You're still watching out for her, aren't you, sir?"

Dumbledore's blue eyes turned toward Harry. With a sad, contemplative expression, the old Headmaster simply sighed and spoke in a voice filled with some unnamed emotion. "It seems, Harry, that the ability to blame oneself for all the evils of this world does not dissipate with age or experience. It only increases in those quiet moments of personal reflection, which come to you in abundance in old age."

"Sir, you don't honestly think you're to blame for Voldemort, do you?"

Dumbledore gave a small, poignant chuckle and patted Harry on his shoulder. "An old man such as myself has the luxury of extensive hindsight, Harry. Regardless of whether this self-blame is valid, it haunts me to this day whenever I look back upon my life. Thus, when I first encountered the young Miss Greengrass," Dumbledore said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand, "I saw a young girl who could manipulate, lie, and steal, without a second thought. She had no family or friends, and viewed herself as a strange creature in a world that had always been foreign to her. In speaking with her, I was saddened. I saw a girl who sounded as rough and as cruel as Riddle was in that memory. But, the longer I sat with her, and spoke to her, and learned about her past, I realized a fundamental difference between her and Tom."

Harry leaned forward, brow creased in concentration.

"Miss Greengrass had, and continues to possess, the capacity for remorse, Harry. Despite whatever actions her impulsive nature told her was acceptable, she always sought forgiveness from the individuals she had wronged. She also had a most troubling habit of punishing herself rather severely if, in the height of her emotional impulses, she physically harmed another person."

Harry felt a chill run up his spine. "What do you mean, Professor?" he asked, brow clearly troubled as he thought through what that 'punishment' could entail.

"Although I have already spoken more frankly than I should have regarding Miss Greengrass' past to you, Harry, I feel disclosing that particular piece of information would be overstepping a trust that I do not wish to break. What I have revealed to you thus far has remained within what you already knew about Miss Greengrass and my own personal observations.

"I will say this about our tough, little Miss Greengrass; though she has always been in the habit of doing or saying things without thought or control over her actions or words, she has always possessed an underlying humanity, a longing to make right whatever she has done wrong, and a strong desire to find a place among her kind and to be accepted for who she is."

Harry felt himself nodding. Dumbledore's observations regarding the parallels between Daphne Greengrass and Tom Riddle made Harry dizzy with realization.

In one night, he had learned Tom Riddle was a moody, arrogant loner with no regard for authority or other human beings, and who enjoyed committing acts of physical and psychological harm on his peers.

He had also learned that Daphne Greengrass was a moody, arrogant loner with no _apparent_ regard for authority or other human beings, and who did commit acts of physical and psychological harm on her peers, but felt remorse after she did them and hurt herself physically afterwards.

Dumbledore believed in Daphne, just as he had done with Snape. Going even further, Dumbledore believed saving Daphne could fix some internal failing the old wizard had felt since Tom Riddle became Voldemort.

"Harry, I am thankful that you, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have included others, particularly Miss Greengrass, into your circle of friendship. I think, through the three of you, that Miss Greengrass might find a place where she finally belongs."

Harry found himself chuckling slightly. "Ron seems to have already claimed Daphne as a long-lost Weasley sibling."

"Did he, now." Dumbledore's good hand reached up to stroke his beard, and his face revealed a great smile. "Well, I must say, that is a promising development indeed!"

Harry grinned back at the Headmaster. "Maybe you're right. But, I know she's under a lot of pressure with the other Slytherins, to the point where they're hexing and cursing her. What if our friendship with her isn't enough? What if she chooses to stay out of the fight? Or what if she chooses to betray us at some point, Professor?"

Dumbledore sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers and pressing them to his mouth. "One could say that she made her bed and that she would have to lie in it. Others could say that perhaps one should walk a mile in her shoes and then think about why she would do such a thing." The Headmaster smiled behind his hands. "Like Miss Greengrass, I would suggest to you that _you _should find your own way to deal with the events that lie ahead."

(_That's just great_ . . . _I _love_ it when he's so straightforward_ . . .)

"Well, erm . . . Professor . . . I shouldn't keep you, y'know."

"Of course, Harry! Please, do give Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger my best."

With a smile and a nod, Harry departed from Dumbledore's office.

* * *

While Harry and Dumbledore busied themselves with revisiting the past, Ron, Hermione and Daphne found a dark corner of the library in which to "study" and to converse freely and privately.

After having cast _Muffliato_, of course . . .

"So, I'm starting this weekend."

"What are you starting, _Daf_'?" Ron cocked his eyebrow and smirked at her.

Glaring at him, Daphne pressed on. "The assignment that Dumbledore talked me into over the summer."

Hermione sat with her hands in front of her, speaking purposefully and deliberately. "How are you going to go about it, then?"

Daphne's face twitched as she chewed the inside of her cheeks and lips simultaneously. "Well, I've sorta created these profiles of the younger Slytherins. Of course, I'm nowhere near done, but I have at least five to start with, y'know. Narrowing it down as much as possible."

"Narrowing what down?" Ron asked.

Daphne pulled out a notebook full of papers. "Each person in the house is initially sectioned off by year and, of course, by gender." Daphne opened the notebook, pages blank until she touched them with the tip of her wand and muttered an indecipherable password. "Within each category, I have the students sorted by blood purity and income status, which are my two main criteria for approachability. Of course, I have sundry random facts — i.e. social circles, brief family histories, whether or not they'd stoop so low as to lick Malfoy's boots. . . ."

"And there's only five?" Ron interrupted, looking frustrated on Daphne's behalf.

"Er . . . so far. It's not like these are the _only_ ones in the House—"

(_Well_ . . . _hopefully!_)

"Look, Ron, it's not all that easy. I'm tackling my classes, doing three of Bulstrode's loads — by which I mean her schoolwork, nothing more disgusting than that — and I'm everyone's 'Go-to-Girl' for favors, requests, and demands. So, I'm _seriously _lucky if I can find five little snakes who won't genuflect every time Malfoy or other Slytherin pure-blood-spouting wanker walks by them in our common room!"

Daphne could tell she had gone a _wee_ bit overboard the moment she spied Ron's face.

The redhead spluttered, "Er, fine. Sorry . . . didn't mean—"

(_Crap! Do I have to apologize for that too? I'm tired and cranky and I don't really give a shit!_)

"No, seriously. It's me, okay? I'm just kind of on edge the whole time right now, and I'm not sure if I'm coming or going."

Hermione reached out to Daphne once again. This time, Daphne gave no silly, uncomfortable response; she merely allowed it to happen.

"Daphne, if you need to take a break, just do it. You don't have to be 'on' all the time, you know?"

Daphne started fussing with the edge of her parchment again, making it crease. "I'm just real bloody tired all the time. I constantly have to keep shields up around my things, what with Parkinson's itchy wand hand, and I abhor feeling paranoid with looking over my shoulder, even if Zabini _is_ cooperating." Daphne looked at Hermione. "Hermione, do you really want to know about my deal with Zabini?"

"Oh? Well, only if you want to tell me. . . ."

Daphne and Ron shot each other quick glances. Ron could only shrug and nod, as if to say, "Go on if you must," and gestured toward Hermione.

Taking a deep breath, Daphne lowered her voice and whispered across the table, "I've been blackmailing Zabini with information that he's been in a relationship with another Hogwarts male student since last year."

Daphne watched as Hermione dropped her quill. Daphne reckoned she had never seen anyone's eyes or mouth mirror exactly each other in shape, because Hermione's had just formed perfect "O's" all over her face.

"Well, at least she didn't show you the pictures," Ron piped up.

"Daphne! You-you . . . _didn't, _did you?"

From Hermione, it came out more as a little squeak.

"Creevey's really got an eye for certain _shots_, as they say."

Hermione stared at Daphne as if she had just sprouted antlers and a pair of wings.

"You got Colin Creevey to—"

"Take pictures of Zabini and the other bloke, make several copies, and put an Authentication Charm on the whole lot of them. He even found a good place for me to hide the pictures."

"Colin Creevey agreed to this? _Colin Creevey _Colin Creevey?! Seriously?"

"Well, you'd be surprised what someone would be willing to do for a few Galleons . . . or fifty . . . or a hundred. And Creevey's much more devious than you would think, Hermione. He can be downright scary at times." Daphne lopsidedly grinned to herself. "Bloke probably should've been sorted into Slytherin, come to think of it . . ."

Hermione let out a groaning breath. "I just don't know what to think about this."

"Hermione," Daphne looked at the other girl's scandalized face, "I'm in Slytherin. This is a house that thrives on the maintenance of personal image and appearance. They also don't respond if you politely asked them to stop cursing you into the middle of next century."

"What? So you _can't _ask them, 'Draco, could you be a dear and not _Crucio_ me today? Thank you, and please pass the pumpkin juice?'"

Daphne snorted. "There's definitely none of that, Ron, no."

Hermione was silent for a moment, her face twitching slightly like she was thinking through something specific. After a spell, she let out a huge sigh and spoke. "I've actually blackmailed someone as well."

Ron whipped his head around so fast, Daphne reckoned she heard joints snapping. "_What?_"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ron, honestly! Remember fourth year? On the train? The glass jar? The _beetle _that wouldn't just _shut_ _up_?"

Ron's face lit up in comprehension. "Oh, bloody hell! I'd totally forgotten."

"Apparently," Hermione dryly responded.

For her part, Daphne could hardly believe her own ears.

(_Wait_ . . ._ Hermione_ . . . _Hermione Jean Granger _. . . _Gryffindor prefect and the most perfect student Hogwarts has ever seen_ . . . _is a blackmailer?_)

"I. Don't. Believe. It." Daphne breathed. "I mean, you're _you_! Hermione Granger doesn't go around doing things like that."

"I've told Harry since our first year — we've been a bad influence on her," Ron said and pointed his thumb at Hermione.

"Well, the scheme suited my purpose well, since I was able to stop that vile woman from writing anymore lies about Harry and myself . . ."

"Wait — huh?" Daphne said, utterly and completely confused.

Hermione looked at Daphne, and spoke with choppy hesitation. "I, er, all right. . . . I found out that this obnoxious reporter, who had been printing nothing but lies and vicious, scandalous things about Harry, and even myself, was an unregistered Animagus. So I caught her when she was in her animal form — which was a beetle — and stuffed her into a jar and informed her if she ever so much as _printed_ another word about Harry that wasn't authorized _by_ him, I'd throw her to the mercy of the Dementors quicker than she could say 'Quick-Quotes-Quill'."

It hit Daphne before she even realized she had remembered it. "Oh, Merlin! I remember that bint." Daphne snapped her fingers as she searched her memory for the woman's name. "Wasn't it Scooter . . . or Skelly . . ."

"Skeeter," Hermione said.

"Bloody hell, you're right! Skeeter . . . wow! Malfoy, hell, _all_ of Slytherin House, throughout that year, were so giddy with all the stuff that was being written about Harry and you. I think I had asked you at one point whether some of it was true, and . . . now I remember—"

"Me looking at you like a Chinese Fireball that hadn't eaten in a decade?" Hermione said sarcastically.

"Yeah, pretty much. Which shut me up pretty damn fast."

Their conversation was interrupted by Harry Potter, jogging up to the table. Lifting the Muffliato Charm, the three students looked at Harry, who was, in turn, looking at them curiously.

"You lot _do _remember that the library closes in ten minutes."

"Shit!" Ron and Daphne exclaimed in unison.

Hermione yelped in surprise. "Oh Godric! I'd forgotten all about the time!" All three teenagers started shoving things here and there into any possible nook and cranny and jumped out of their chairs, as if the seats had suddenly become blazing hot.

"Okay, so I've come to a decision about the DA," Harry whispered as they were passing through a crowd of students all heading out of the library in a mad rush to make it to their dormitories before curfew started. "I'm going to start it back up again. But," Harry said, before Hermione, Ron and Daphne could get more excited, "I think I'm going to have to ask Snape to support and sign off on it, since it would connect directly with his class. And that . . . is going to make this very difficult!"

"Well, today's your lucky day, mate!" Ron exclaimed, as soon as they stepped out into the hallway. He slapped Daphne hard on the back. "Ol' Dafferoo can help you out there! She and Snape? Like this." Ron held up two fingers and crossed them together.

"Weasley! Keep going on with that nickname and I'll introduce your arse to my foot, _or_ I'll introduce you to your brother's more _experimental _line of Wheezes. I'm not picky either way. "

"Aww, c'mon. Don't tell me you've lost that sparkling sense of humor that you've always had?"

Continuing to glare at Ron, Daphne spoke. "Unfortunately, Professor Snape's not really paying me any attention. Not, er, since . . ." Daphne looked down at the ground.

(_It's going to sound like it's his fault, no matter what._)

"Ever since last year, you mean." Harry nodded as if he understood.

Daphne didn't say anything.

"He's not messing with you or anything because you were with us last year?' Ron asked her.

"No, he's . . . well," Daphne hesitantly spoke, "he's more _ignoring_ me than anything else. He only talks to me when he absolutely has to, and when he _does_ say anything, he's completely expressionless and vacant, and scurries away from me like I'm about to give him a hug." Daphne huffed.

"He calls on you in class and gives you points, though," Hermione said.

Daphne shrugged. "He gives his_ House _points, whether it's through me or Malfoy or Goyle. And you should really pay closer attention when he does call on me. He sounds like he stepped in a pile of kneazle poo."

"Merlin! He's an insufferable arse!" Harry said crossly.

Daphne mildly smiled at him. "Thanks for the indignation on my behalf. It's so very _Gryffindor_." She sighed audibly. "I think, though, if you have to ask Professor Snape for permission for anything, I would and should be the obvious choice."

"Daphne—" Harry started, giving her a disbelieving look.

She held up a hand to quiet him. "Harry, he'll just laugh at you if you approach him and bin your request with the other trash. I need an excuse to kiss his arse anyways."

Noting the revolted looks on Harry and Ron's face, Daphne rolled her eyes and shot back in annoyance, "I don't mean like _that_, you pervy wankers! I want to get back into his good graces. He is my favorite teacher, and I bloody hate it that I can't even get a reaction from him." The teenagers eventually acquiesced to Daphne just before they arrived at the entrance toward the dungeons.

* * *

The Gryffindors made their own way toward the seventh floor and the portrait of the Fat Lady. Once upon entering, Ron, Hermione and Harry found a secluded corner of the common room. Looking around them, he cast the Muffliato Charm once again to ensure their privacy. He then described in great detail the memory he and Dumbledore visited tonight ("Blimey! You-Know-Who _was_ a moody shithead," said Ron) and about the conversations immediately following it, including Dumbledore's observations about Daphne and Riddle's similar childhoods.

"So Dumbledore's been looking out for Daphne ever since her childhood because he thinks she could be the Second Coming of You-Know-Who?" Ron asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry shook his head. "No, I don't think it's like that, really. He's not worried she'll become another Voldemort—"

"SSSTH . . ." Ron hissed at the name. Harry and Hermione let out two great, exasperated breaths.

"—but he's more worried that she could've fallen in with his supporters, or that she'd make some other bad decisions because she never had a place where she felt like she belonged . More than that, Dumbledore blames himself for Riddle becoming Voldemort ("Honestly, Ron! It's just a name" Hermione interrupted) and this is his way of fixing the mistakes he feels he made in the past."

"But that's ridiculous!" Hermione cried out. "He could never have known what Voldemort would have become. No one could have known . . ."

"Hermione, it doesn't matter if it's reasonable or right. Dumbledore's the most powerful wizard currently alive, he's the leader of the Order, _and_ he knew You-Know-Who when he was a snot-nosed, runty shithead. If there's anybody who would have thought they could've stopped _him_, it'd be Dumbledore himself." Ron glanced down at the hem of his jeans, faded and frayed and shrunk far above his ankle to reveal his white socks. "I mean, he probably thinks he missed all the signs that there was trouble ahead, and because he missed it, many people were hurt, and he didn't do anything to stop it, and if he had just said something . . ."

"Ron, don't." Hermione interrupted Ron's mumbling.

"I know what's going on in that head of yours, Ron, and you need to stop it now," Harry pointed his finger on the tabletop. "We won't have you blaming yourself all the time for any of what happened in the past."

Ron breathed heavily. "No . . . I know, I know. It's just . . . I understand what's going on in Dumbledore's head, y'know? I had the same thoughts about Daphne, like helping her, I'd be making up for the mistakes I made with Ginny."

"But doesn't it seem a bit—" Harry faltered, hesitating about what he wanted to say.

"Er, a bit _what_, Harry?"

"Well, it seems like we're forcing Daphne to choose us, in a way. It seems like we're all telling her what to do, and taking her free will to decide between us or them."

"Harry, it's not 'forcing' or compelling her to choose sides if we're just being ourselves. We're not threatening her or taking any other coercive action," Hermione said gently.

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "But, do we see her as a person, like one of us? Or is she a means to an end. Do I just see her as a way to help me feel better or something?" Ron ruffled his mop of red hair.

"Wow," Harry said after a few moments. "Deep thoughts with Ron Weasley."

"Oh, shut up, Harry." Ron said lazily, head resting on his fist.

After letting a few moments of amusement pass, Harry grew serious once again. "I guess we keep being ourselves and let her choose her own path. I will say, though," Harry said, looking at Ron and Hermione, "there aren't words for how disappointed I'd be if Daphne turns her back on us. I've come to rather like her. As a friend, of course."

"Oh, yeah. Right. Of course." Ron said back, looking somewhat troubled.

"Ron?' Hermione asked worriedly. "What's the matter?"

Ron shook his head, and smiled humorlessly. "Nothing's wrong, Hermione. Don't worry. Harry, fancy a game of Exploding Snap?"

Harry thought Ron was trying to change the subject, but he wanted to do something to take his mind off of the conversations from earlier. "Absolutely!"

And the two boys set about playing several rounds, losing and winning in turns, with Hermione reading and yelling out hints to Ron, much to Harry's amused chagrin.

* * *

**A/N: **Please feel free to check out my one-shot series, "A Second Thought". Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger, and Neville Longbottom are all up. Hermione's one-shot is a prequel to this whole work, set just before the prologue.

Love to hear from ya in a review! Enjoy!


	17. Chapter 16: A Conversation with Snape

**A/N: **Thanks, stella8h8chang for the revisions and beta and for going all super-Latin-hero on my spells (shakes fist at computer language translator). You really helped me out there!

This chapter contains strong language . . . I own nothing. Please let me know what you think in a review. Love to hear from ya!

* * *

**Chapter 16: A Conversation with Snape**

Daphne Greengrass walked into the Great Hall Saturday morning with two specific goals in mind: one, hunt down (_err _. . . _engage?_) Professor Snape in a conversation and ask him about assisting with Dumbledore's (_or Defense?_) Army, and two, start talking to the Slytherins that she had selected as the most . . . receptive to Harry's position.

After having eaten one or two pieces of toast with marmalade, Daphne waited until Professor Snape got up from his chair at the teacher's table and started walking with his great, wide strides toward the entrance of the Great Hall. Quickly, she vacated her seat and practically jogged toward the former Potions Master.

"_Professor_ _Snape_!" she called out.

She watched as he slowly turned around to face her, eyebrow already raised high on his face.

"_Yes_, Miss Greengrass?"

His toneless voice was once again cold and unfeeling.

(_Can't he even gather up _some_ enthusiasm? I _am_ a Slytherin, after all!_)

"Professor Snape, I, um, well . . ." Daphne found that, in the midst of Professor Snape's unrelenting unemotional response to her, she just couldn't find her words.

"Miss Greengrass, _if_ you're having so much trouble figuring out what you are trying to say," Professor Snape said dryly, "might I recommend that you_ write it out_ and come to my class five minutes early and waste my time then."

(_Oh really, you emotionless bastard? What do you think I did all last night and this morning?_)

Daphne closed her eyes and caught her breath.

(_No_ . . ._ don't lose it now, Greengrass. Keep it together_ . . .)

Just as he was about to turn on his heels, Daphne found her voice.

"Professor! I just had a few questions about class."

She winced internally; Daphne rationalized that it wasn't a lie . . . necessarily. The DA matter _did_ concern the Defense Against the Dark Arts class, and, therefore, Professor Snape.

(_Well, he wanted the job so bloody bad _. . .)

Daphne watched Professor Snape's face fall in exasperation; she immediately regretted ever agreeing to talk to him. Sighing as if he had just resigned himself to some onerous task, Professor Snape beckoned to her with two fingers over his shoulders to follow him to his office.

* * *

"Miss Greengrass," Professor Snape said as he sat at his desk. "You have me for _ten_ minutes — I hope you can form a coherent sentence in that time or else you can see your way out in _five._"

(_Mother-_ . . ._ this is gonna be harder than I thought!_)

"Right, er . . . Professor. I just wanted to say that you've been a great Defense teacher, and I'm truly glad the Headmaster let you have the opportunity to teach this class." Daphne attempted her brightest smile and head nod.

Professor Snape fell back into his chair. Leaning on his desk and cradling his head between the index and middle fingers of the hand closest to Daphne, he drawled, "You have _four _minutes, Miss Greengrass."

"_Four?_" Daphne practically shouted. "You said I had ten!"

"You _had_ ten _if_ you decided not to ramble on and on about trifling matters," Professor Snape said, with more of an edge to his voice. "You seemed bound and determined to prattle on without thought or consideration of my time during one of my very few free moments."

Daphne sighed, and rubbed her head with the heel of her palm.

(_Harry is not right about him _. . . _Harry is not right about him _. . . _Harry is _not right_ about him!_)

"Professor Snape, I was thinking . . . Well, because you're the _first _proper Defense teacher we've actually had, and because people have fallen far behind with all the changes in teachers and lessons, that . . . er. . . ." Daphne felt the confidence that she had been working so hard to fake drain out of her voice and body as Professor Snape stared her down. She pressed on. "Maybe . . . what _would_ be helpful would be to . . . um . . . perhaps have some study and practice sessions outside of class to help out the rest of the students?"

_That_ made the old Potions Master sit straight up.

"Miss Greengrass, I'm sure this may come as a surprise to you, but _I_ am a very busy man. _If _I were to approve of something like this, _whom_ would you suggest I get to help me teach and organize the sessions?"

He looked at her as if he dared her to say the name.

Daphne gave a long, slow blink and muttered . . .

"Well, maybe because he did really well with all of us last year . . . Harry Potter?"

It came out like a squeak, quite unlike Daphne's normal, sullen-sounding voice.

And apparently, judging from Professor Snape's stormy face, she was right to be nervous about his reaction to her request.

Slamming his hand on his desk, Professor Snape turned his ire upon her. "_This_ is what you've decided was a good way to waste my time? Asking favors for '_The Chosen One_'?" he spat at her. "He made you come ask me for this, didn't he?" Professor Snape sneered. "Never thought it possible. A _Slytherin_ doing Potter's bidding . . ." he hissed.

"No, Professor, it's — nothing like that, I promise you." Daphne _hated _pleading with anybody for anything, but, well, it _was _Professor Snape _and_ Daphne just had to make him understand. "I did talk about it with Harry . . . er, with Potter," she said, changing tack when she saw the disgusted look on Professor Snape's face, "I suggested it with him, he wanted — and still wants — to do it. But," Daphne said, looking to the side and gesturing to him, humbly, "he was uncomfortable asking you, and seeing as you're the Head of Slytherin, and I'm _in _Slytherin . . ."

"I see you've adopted Potter's own sense of arrogant delusion!" Professor Snape pushed himself out of his chair and strode around to face Daphne directly. "Did you actually _think_ I would fall for this manipulative little farce, Miss Greengrass?"

"Professor, Harry is a good instructor. He knew how to work with the students and explain things. I think for those of us who are having problems with practical defensive spellwork, he'd be a patient, thorough teacher . . ."

"It doesn't _matter_, Greengrass."

Somehow, saying her name without the "Miss" in front of it was far worse for Daphne than anything else Professor Snape could say to her. She felt that familiar feeling of anger, borne of frustration and futility, rising in her chest, threatening a verbal onslaught that only Veritaserum could beat.

"Professor, please—"

Professor Snape stood straight up, cloaked arms folded across his chest. "_Miss_ Greengrass, you have taken up _enough_ of my time today. Was there _anything at all_, in any of your inane ramblings, that you wanted to discuss directly concerning _my_ _class_?!" The volume of Professor Snape's voice kept increasing to dangerously loud volume levels.

Shaking with nerves and emotion, Daphne found herself rising out of her own seat and walking around behind it with purposeful strides.

"P-Professor," Daphne began, "I know that I did something . . . I don't know what, exactly, but I _did _do something. I, well . . . I know you don't like me, all right? You haven't liked me since last year. And yes, I do admit I joined Dumbledore's Army last year and I fought with Harry and the others at the Ministry . . ."

Professor Snape held his hand up in a quick, deliberate fashion. "Greengrass, you need _not _remind me of those events. They are already stored up here," the Professor pointed to his head, "so I can continue to relieve how one of my more promising students decided to choose Potter and his enormously inflated ego over Slytherin." Snape shook his head. "Disgusting, really! As if that boy needed anyone else prancing around after him."

Daphne's mouth dropped open in complete shock. She couldn't handle this new, abrasive tone of Professor Snape's voice; she couldn't handle that he had called her by her last name.

Just as he did with the rest of the Gryffindors.

Just as he did with Harry.

She felt an onslaught of emotions welling up inside of her. Daphne's brain started working overtime, producing words and sentences that probably had no business ever being publicized.

"B-But, Professor, aren't you helping out Dumbledore? Shouldn't _my_ choosing to support Harry's side make you happy, then? I mean, I know you don't like Harry, and probably Ron or Hermione, but now, you're chastising one of your students for believing in the cause too?" Daphne shook her head. "Professor Snape, I really don't understand . . ."

Professor Snape waved his hand dismissively. "You've already taken up enough of my time, Greengrass. There's the door," he said, gesturing towards the entrance, "So, see your way out!"

With that, he landed in his chair, picked up his quill and began scribbling away on some blank parchment.

Daphne could only continue gawping at him. Much like a fish out of water, she found her mouth moving soundlessly, seeking out words that wouldn't come.

"Why are you _still_ _here_? Door. Out. _Now_." Professor Snape snapped, without looking up to address Daphne directly.

Slowly pivoting on the balls of her feet, Daphne walked languidly to the door. Just as she made it to the threshold, she stopped and turned once again, to face her favorite teacher.

"Professor," Daphne's voice creaked and squeaked, "I'm sorry that I disappointed you with my decisions. I wanted to do what I thought was the right thing, and so I did it," she said, wisely leaving out the part where she had a crush on Harry, "and I'm sorry that my decision angers you especially, since you were always the one that encouraged me in Potions. You still are my favorite teacher, Professor."

Daphne looked at Professor Snape from across the room. He had stopped writing and lifted his head up to look at her, his face once again without expression or emotion.

Before he could say anything else to her, Daphne slipped out into the hallway, and started walking quickly towards the stairs, visibly shaken and wanting nothing more than a safe bed and maybe some hot chocolate.

(_0 for 2, Greengrass. Get yourself some chocolate after you've successfully converted your first Slytherin _. . . _which, by the way _. . . _fuuuuuuck!_)

Resigning herself to her second failure of the day, Daphne sought out the Slytherin she had singled out as the first for Dumbledore's assignment.

* * *

"Mmmm . . ." Ron hummed lazily into the wildly-curly mane of chestnut-brown hair. " 'S nice. Laying here . . . like how your blasted, ugly cat lays in front of the fire—"

"Hey!" Hermione exclaimed, but softly and amusedly, "Crookshanks does like you, Ron."

"He'd like it if I'd snuff it, that's what he'd like. Although I honestly couldn't tell, what with his face all scrunched up and poofy." Ron wrinkled his face, smiling contentedly.

The two Gryffindor prefects were sitting on the couch in the Gryffindor common room. Ron had just completed the morning Quidditch practice with Harry, had showered, and had found his . . .

(_Um_ . . . _er _. . . _well_ . . .)

(_That's a good question, innit Weasley?_)

. . . his _Hermione_, sitting on a couch in the common room, by herself. He had taken a seat next to her, and, very quickly, the two teenagers found themselves intertwined together, Hermione leaning into Ron and Ron rubbing small circles on her back.

"Now, Crookshank's _owner_," Hermione said, lifting her head up to look at Ron directly into his eyes, "is a different story altogether."

Ron simply continued to smile. "Oh? How's that? She wouldn't like it if I snuffed it, would she?"

Hermione shook her head. "Quite the opposite, actually. She'd be utterly devastated. I have it on good authority that she rather likes redheads with fiery personalities and a quick wit." She grinned contentedly at Ron.

Biting his lip and still smiling, Ron looked into her eyes. "Well, I should introduce her to Ginny then. They'd make a smashing couple!"

"Ron!" Hermione said scandalized. She reached for a pillow to lob at his head, but Ron caught her around the middle, his fingers interlocking behind her back. He gave her a firm squeeze and kissed her on her nose.

He loved it when she melted into his arms. Ron kissed her nose again . . . he kissed just below it . . . he kissed her upper lip . . .

(_Merlin's beard_ . . . _can't I take a N.E.W.T. in Snogging Hermione Granger, 101? It'd be an all-practical exam_ . . .)

After a few moments of lip-locked activity, Ron and Hermione once again returned to watching the fire, purring and humming in utter contentment. The sounds of other Gryffindors, fuzzy and indistinct in the background.

Unfortunately, Ron's brain started to work again, and he remembered part of their conversation in the same common room just the night before. . . .

"Hermione, do you think it's possible that Harry might like Daphne?"

Ron felt Hermione stiffen a bit after asking this question. Thinking quickly, he started rubbing her back again, breathing out in a sigh of relief once Hermione relaxed in his arms.

"Why does it matter, Ron?"

Ron thought through a number of ways to answer that question. "Humor me for a moment, Hermione. I swear, it's just a question."

Hermione sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. "Well," she began, looking at Ron squarely in the face, "I actually rather suspected Harry might be attracted to Ginny."

Ron practically jumped up off the couch.

"_Ginny_? As in . . . _Ginevra Molly Weasley_? As in _my baby sister Ginevra Molly Weasley_?"

"Ron, I don't think the students in the dungeons heard you. Speak a bit louder, next time," Hermione deadpanned.

Ron spluttered. "B-but she's still dating Dean, right? I mean, I'm not even used to that yet . . ."

"Ron, I thought that you'd been wanting Harry and Ginny to get together? You had before, right?"

Ron sat for a moment. Once he got over the initial shock of hearing the observation from Hermione, he thought through it.

Harry had been — and continued to be — the only bloke at Hogwarts, in all of England . . . hell, perhaps on the entire _planet_ that he could trust with his little sister.

At least trust him ninety-five to one-hundred percent of the time with Ginny.

(_I mean, blokes in general are perverted bastards. __I do know what goes on in our minds about girls _. . . _being a bloke myself_ and_ having a girl that I can think about regularly like that!_)

"No, you're right. If I had to choose, I'd want Harry and Ginny to be together." Ron said after a few minutes.

"So, why were you asking about Daphne?" Hermione inquired.

Ron looked at his hands. "It's just a hunch, I s'pose." Ron chewed the inside of his cheek. "I think Daphne likes him, though."

"Of course she does, Ron."

"Wait, she told you?"

Hermione sighed. "Well, not in so many words, no. But it's pretty obvious, isn't it? I mean, the way she looks at him, they way she quickly agrees to about anything he wants her to do. I'm not saying that she should act like that, or that it's right or anything, but it's how she's dealing with her feelings for Harry."

Ron processed these observations, speaking finally, after a few moments, what was troubling his mind. "So, do you think, if Harry doesn't like her like _that_, and she tries to make a move for him and he rejects her . . . do you think she might turn away from us? She might run back to the other Slytherins?"

"Is that what was bothering you last night? When Harry said he liked Daphne just as a friend." Hermione asked.

Ron nodded.

"It's a possibility. Do I think she'd reject us outright and become a Death Eater? Not at all, knowing how she reacted when she saw Cedric's body. But, it is quite possible she could turn her back on the three of us if Harry rejected her."

"Do you think she could betray us? If she knew something about all of us that should be kept secret?"

"Ron, all things are possible. She could tell someone of her own accord. She could even be compelled to tell on us with a curse. Or she might not do anything."

"Would you tell people what you know about Daphne — like her blackmailing scheme — if she turned away from us?"

Hermione considered this. "I probably wouldn't, Ron. I mean, we've done similar things ourselves. It's Daphne's burden to bear. I think if we have problems with her behavior, we should talk to her about it, let her know how we feel, but try to be there for her either way." Hermione turned her face toward Ron, giving him a most serious expression. "That's what you do when your friends with someone. Try to understand where they're coming from, empathize, even if you don't agree with what they've done, and hope they learn from their mistakes and encourage them to do better in the future."

Ron scrubbed at his face with his hand. "Yeah, I s'pose you're right, as usual—" He was cut off, quite pleasantly, by Hermione, who had just pressed her lips against his.

"What was that for?" Ron asked, rather dazed.

Hermione shrugged. "I just felt like it. You're rather cute when you're all philosophical and sweet and — MMMPH!"

Ron took his turn, this time, in cutting Hermione off.

"_Oi_! Public area and all! Simmer down, you two!" Ron and Hermione jumped to opposite ends of the couch as they saw Harry Potter coming through the entrance of the common room. Harry could only laugh at the sight of his two best friends, prying themselves apart from their not-so-covert little clinch. He plopped down between them.

Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry. "We ought to hex you for interrupting our important conversation, Potter." There was no actual malice in his voice; it merely sounded like a playful threat.

"You two were _only_ talking, were you? In what language, then? _Tongues_?"

Harry ducked at the onslaught of pillows being tossed in his general direction.

After a moment of letting their laughter subside, Harry turned to his friends. "It's a no go on the DA, at least insofar as Snape is concerned." Harry unrolled a piece of parchment that had writing all over it. "Daphne sent this parchment to me." Ron and Hermione both scanned down the paper, reading Daphne's skinny scrawl:

_**The Bat has denied our request . . . **_

**Okay . . .wait, what?! **

_**Potter . . . the Bat has—**_

**No, I know that — who the hell is "the Bat"?**

_**"The**** Bat****" . . . Professor Snape, **__**you **__**idiot!**_

**Okay, okay! Merlin, ****you don't have to ****yell . . .**

"I had just sat down in the library, planning to look around for any information about potions or poisons or toxins, and I guess Daphne cast the Dual Dialogue Charm again, because we were able to have a whole conversation like this."

Ron couldn't contain his chortling. "I see she's in a brilliant mood today."

"Wouldn't you be after spending the morning with that slimy git?" Harry questioned. Ron could only nod and shrug in agreeement.

"Maybe he really does have a problem with her because she helped us out," Hermione said.

Ron could only shake his head. "Snape's such a twat."

"_Ron_!" Hermione chastised.

"Well, it's the truth, isn't it?" Harry spoke up, defending his best friend from what he was sure was going to be a lecture from Hermione about respecting their teachers. "He can do things for the Order and for Dumbledore, but _Merlin forbid _if Daphne joins up with us and fights with us! Hermione, even you have to admit that that's _really_ just plain shitty."

"No, I agree wholeheartedly that Professor Snape's definitely in the wrong with how he's treating Daphne. But it would do the both of you good to find less vulgar words in which to express your anger. And it would be _lovely_," Hermione drawled, "if you could remove as many gender-specific derogatory words from _both _of your vocabularies."

"Huh?"

"If the two of you could refrain while in my presence, Ron, from using the 'B-word', 'T-word', 'P-word', or 'C-word', and any such other words of a similar nature, that would be _fan-_tastic." Hermione said in a dignified manner.

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Nodding with authority, they adopted the most sheepish expressions they could muster. With droopy eyes and pouty lips, they simply turned to face Hermione. "We're sorry, Hermione."

Hermione could only roll her eyes and shake her head a little, but she did so with a smile for her two boys. "Honestly."

* * *

"Blackstone? Thomas Gregory Blackstone?" Daphne casually strolled over to the boy sitting by himself at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. Between meals, students often used the empty space to study or read, and it would be either here, in the library or in between classes that Daphne would meet each of her five younger students on her current list.

Daphne snorted internally.

(_Hope Dumbledore's happy! Everything's going according to _his_ bloody stupid plan._)

The little runt—

(_Oh, come on Greengrass! He's only two years younger than you!_)

—the _boy_ was sitting by himself, several feet down from the next group of Slytherin students. Daphne looked around, making sure the coast was clear of Ratface or disciples of Ratface.

"Do you know who I am, Blackstone?"

The boy paused in his actions, and raised his head slowly. "You're that _Greengrass _girl." His voice reflected the sneer that had grown on his face. "You're friends with Potter and his pals."

"I see my reputation precedes me," Daphne responded mildly. She sat down next to him.

"In many, many ways," Thomas mumbled, as he turned back to his work. Daphne ignored the snippy remark and set about with her plan.

"Thomas, I'm going around Slytherin, trying to talk to the younger students, such as yourself—"

"Let me guess," Thomas said, as he placed his quill gingerly above his stretched-out parchment. "You're recruiting in Slytherin for fresh meat to join in Potter's ranks. Right?"

Daphne smiled tight-lipped and creased her brow. "You don't have any Seer blood in you, do you?"

Thomas shot her a look of disbelief. "It's just obvious. You have no other reason to talk to me, other than to try to persuade me that Potter's right and all. So, go on. You've got a list? Or maybe some sort of presentation?"

(_I was never this mouthy when I was his age!_)

(_Er_ . . . _or was I?_)

Daphne rubbed her face and took deep breaths to figure out how best to phrase what she wanted — no, _needed — _to say.

"I know you come from middle class family, from Blackwall. Half-Blood, like me. One, maybe two, friends in the entire House — less than close friends, more than mere acquaintances. You've done well in Herbology, Potions, and Defense classes, but I'll bet my wand you couldn't produce a decent Patronus no matter how hard you try. And you're pants at Transfiguration, _and_ you vacillate between Acceptable and Poor in Charms." Daphne spoke rapidly, but precisely. Pausing for just a moment to allow the effect to resonate, she continued, "Well, don't just sit there, boy. Am I close?"

Daphne watched Thomas as he fiddled around with his parchment, absently folding the bottom corners inward and creasing it with his thumbnails.

"I'm Slytherin, Thomas. Through and through. That means I am cunning, ambitious, clever, and will use any means to get my way. From what it seems, you must share the same ambitions, or you wouldn't have been sorted into this House."

"Yeah. So?" Thomas had picked up his quill and had set about to writing on his parchment. Except, Daphne noticed that there wasn't a drop of ink being used.

"So . . . I'm curious. Have you ever thought about Harry Potter's side in this whole," Daphne flipped her hand in the air, "_thing_ . . . like I have? Have you ever considered where you fall insofar as Harry versus Vol- . . . er," she stopped herself, watching the kid squirm a bit, "You-Know-Who are concerned?"

"I don't," came the reply.

Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Really?" she asked dryly.

"Well, I've not really thought about it, like, ever." Thomas said, without looking up. "I mean, You-Know-Who's got some pretty _strict_ notions about magical blood and all—"

"That's one way of putting it . . . " mumbled Daphne.

"—And, well, the people who follow him can be . . . "

"Blood-thirstier than a vampire after a hunger strike?"

Thomas nodded. "However, I don't fancy getting my arse kicked around like yours did. In fact," Thomas leaned in slightly toward her, eyes still focused on his parchment, "I'd prefer it if you moved around to the other side of the table and made it at least _look like _you and I aren't talking. I don't want people thinking I know you . . ."

Daphne scoffed. "I'll have you know I'm personal friends with Blaise Zabini."

Thomas snorted, "Yeah, and _that_ won't last long here. Plus, Zabini can't be around to protect you, and whomever else, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week." Thomas returned back to his parchment, and this time Daphne noticed he had actually started writing on it. "Now, I need to finish this essay for Potions for Monday. If you'll excuse me please."

(_He's dismissing _me? _Bloody outrageous!_)

With that, Daphne's fake smile fell completely, and she scowled as she left the Slytherin table, walking toward the entrance of the Great Hall in wide, quick steps . . .

(_Are they all gonna be like this? How in the name of Salazar's butt-boils am I going to make _any_ bit of difference with these head cases _. . .)

So wide and quick were her steps, that she didn't even notice Professor Snape . . . until she ran straight into him.

"_Miss_ Greengrass, _do_ watch _where _you are going," Professor Snape spoke sharply. "Or, rather, _whom _you are running into. Clumsy girl," he muttered under his breath.

"Professor, I-I'm sorry. I didn't see you there."

"_Ob-_viously. Anyways, Miss Greengrass, I was looking for you. Shall we?" Professor Snape gestured toward the Great Hall doors. Daphne gulped heavily and followed him out toward the main floor. Snape stopped walking in the middle of the main floor, practically in front of the hallway leading toward the Grand Staircase.

"Miss Greengrass," Snape said in a mild tone, "I have had some opportunity to consider your request from earlier, and I _think_," he said thickly, the word almost reluctantly rolling off his tongue, "one could work in a Defense practice and/or study group, perhaps on a weekly basis or so."

"Professor, really? You mean—" Professor Snape cut her off with his raised hand.

"Someone else — _not_ me, mind you, shall be responsible for organizing the meetings, and each meeting should reflect a review of that week's coursework. You can do a review of general defensive spellwork every so often, but the sessions _must_ reflect _my _lessons."

Snape crossed his arms and gave Daphne a stern glare. "I don't know what _Potter _had planned, _besides_ creating a little fan club for himself—" the professor's tone was cynical and harsh.

"—Professor, I assure you that Harry can be a rather arrogant git." Daphne said quickly. She noted a (very) small smile growing on Professor Snape's face.

"But, Miss Greengrass, you are to intervene if you see Potter overstepping my request. I'm sure that you'll be doing so _quite _frequently."

"I wouldn't disagree with you, Professor." Daphne nodded. She nearly let out a breath of relief as she saw a one-sided smirk growing on Professor Snape's face.

With a curt nod, Professor Snape made his way back toward the Dungeons. Just as he was about to enter the dark entrance, he turned back toward Daphne. "You are doing quite well in my Defense class, Miss Greengrass." The tone of his voice was milder this time, far milder than Daphne had ever remembered him using since last year.

"Er, uh . . . thank you, Professor." Despite herself, Daphne could feel her face brightening.

"At least on the written essays. You _must_ work on spell precision and timing. Anything you learn in my class will be useless if you can't actually _do_ defensive magic properly." With that, Professor Snape pulled his face into an inscrutable mask, turned and disappeared down the long corridor toward the dungeons.

Daphne caught her breath twice before letting the smile creep up on her face.

(_I._ _Am. Bloody. Awesome._)

Daphne ran back into the Great Hall and sat at the very end of Slytherin table. Muttering "_Differo Altero Harry Potter_," and waving her wand in a combination of two circles and a zigzagging line, she started writing on her parchment.

_"**The D.A. is a go! I repeat: The D.A. is a go. . . !**"_

* * *

The following Monday, Harry posted the first fliers for the Defense Club, with Ron and Hermione making sure that all the prefects for each house had copies to paper their common rooms with.

All except for Slytherin.

"Hermione, if I give any of these to Malfoy or Parkinson, they're just gonna tear them to shreds." Harry said in exasperation.

"Well, of course they will. Give them to Daphne. I think she can find a way to get them up in her common room." Harry left it up to Daphne to handle informing her House.

By dinner, Harry was showered with requests specific to date and time arrangements for the new Defense Club.

"Harry, this is the Ravenclaw Quidditch schedule."

"We've got Gobstones Club on Mondays, Potter . . ."

"What about our Runes study groups? We have discussions with Professor Babbling . . ."

"The Hufflepuff Quidditch schedule, Potter . . ."

Harry was preparing to yell at the next person who approached him, "No more bloody requests until I've finished my pudding!" but the words stalled on his lips as he heard the start of a blazing row.

"_Greengrass!"_

He watched as all eyes turned and watched as Draco Malfoy stormed into the Great Hall, trailed by Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson. The sixth years all headed straight for Daphne.

"_Greengrass_!" Malfoy screamed. "What the hell is this shit!" He shoved a handful of crumpled paper into the air in front of Daphne's face. Daphne looked at it with a troubled expression.

"Why, _Draco_," she drawled, "it sort of _looks_ like paper." She leaned forward and sniffed it, "it sort of smells like paper." Daphne rubbed the corners. "It feels like paper. By _Jove_!" she exclaimed. "Draco, I do believe it's paper."

A twittering of sniggers floated through the Great Hall; Malfoy regarded the other students with a contemptible look. Harry watched as Professor McGonagall stood up from the teacher's table, her dinner forgotten in the ensuing fight.

"I gave _no_ permission for this trash to litter our common room! You can't _dirty_ Slytherin House with Potter's stupid antics. _I_. _Won't. __Let._ _You_." Malfoy said, stepping forward toward Daphne in a menacing stance. "I won't let you keep disgracing the name of Salazar Slytherin with your Potter infatuation!"

"_My_ infatuation with Potter?" Daphne shouted. "I think the _whole hall_ should know it's not _me_ who's constantly thinking about his Precious Potty . . . Scarhead . . . Saint Potter. . . . Need I continue with all of your little pet names, Malfoy? _Draco?_" Daphne added. Harry watched as Malfoy puffed up angrily. She walked slowly up to him, moving her head left to right with each word. "My little – white – _ferret_!" And she stuck her head into his face.

Harry just about got up out of his seat to assist, when another drawling voice spoke from behind Malfoy. "Mr. Malfoy, you will do well to remember your status as a prefect of Slytherin House and back away from Miss Greengrass. _Now._" Harry saw Snape gliding toward the two Slytherins. "Professor McGonagall, please allow _me_." Snape held up his hand, halting McGonagall from speaking. "May I ask what this disturbance is all about?"

Malfoy thrust the fliers toward Snape. "_She's_ destroying the Slytherin common room with Potter's trash," Malfoy spat out, pointing at Daphne viciously. Snape took hold of the papers, and looked them over summarily, as Malfoy sneered arrogantly.

Even from a distance, Harry's bespectacled eyes could see Snape glancing between Malfoy and Daphne. He could feel Daphne's tension as she waited for whatever Snape would say; she positively radiated anxiety.

"Mr. Malfoy, the Defense Club is forming under _my _authority as an official study group in conjunction with _my_ Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Seeing as how the students," Snape said with a sweeping gesture, "have been denied a proper _education_ in Defensive spells and knowledge, I have determined that inclusion of a supplemental program is not only right, but _ab-_solutely necessary."

"That bloody great prat!" Harry exclaimed. "We haven't been 'denied a proper education'! We had Lupin, didn't we?"

"Harry, I hate to break it to you," Ron answered, "but I don't think Snape's gonna be waving any 'Professor Lupin's Number One' banners any time soon."

Harry could only nod, as he turned his head back to Snape, Daphne and Malfoy, who continued to command the Great Hall's attention.

"Mr. Malfoy, I gave Miss Greengrass my permission to inform our House of the Defense Club, since it is now an official Hogwarts' extracurricular activity. _Whoever_ will be assisting each session," Snape drawled, turning his head slowly toward the Gryffindor table and meeting Harry's eyes, "will be limited to practical review of the previous classes and to supplement the material that the class is currently covering. Miss Greengrass has given her assurance as a member of my House," Snape lifted his chin in a proud, haughty manner, "that this club will meet my specifications."

Lowering his head, he glided closer to Malfoy, and spoke in a low tone, but loud enough for the rest of the hall to hear. "There will be _no_ retaliation or any further fighting between yourself and Miss Greengrass over this matter. Do you understand, Mr. Malfoy? Or shall I have to emphasize my point by, say, removing your status as Slytherin prefect? And detention, perhaps?" Snape stood back up to full height. Malfoy, clearly pissed off, merely mumbled some sort of acceptance of the situation.

"_Spec-_tacular," Snape drawled. "Miss Greengrass, Mr. Malfoy. Professor McGonagall." Snape bowed his head in turns and continued forward toward the teacher's table.

Professor McGonagall pursed her mouth together and pushed her spectacles up to her eyes. "What are you all gawping at?" she said audibly and sternly over the Great Hall. She swatted at the air with her hands. "Go on, finish your meals so you can address more important matters, such as your schoolwork and your marks!" With that, the Transfiguration professor strode back to her spot at the teacher's table.

"Wow! What a show." Ron said. "Of course, it would've been much better had the snake not taken _all _the bloody credit for your idea, Harry."

"Whatever. He certainly put Malfoy in his place, didn't he? I've never heard him talk to the rodent like that before."

"And Daphne put on quite a performance herself, too. It would've deteriorated quickly though had Snape not made his grand entrance." Ginny piped in.

Hermione nodded. "It is strange, isn't it? He's never treated Malfoy like they're best friends or anything like that, but Professor Snape seemed rather arrogant and smug with Malfoy today."

"Yeah," said Harry absently. He looked toward the Slytherin table and caught Daphne's eye. Nodding to her, he smiled and gave her a thumbs-up as she winked and grinned at him.

* * *

**A/N: **"_Differo Altero_" plus person's name: this is the incantation for Dual Dialogue Charm. The spellcaster would assign a specific wand motion to indicate the person they were trying to contact. Daphne created the zigzag line to mimic Harry's scar.

If you haven't done so yet, please check out my three A Second Thought series, set in the From Hell universe. So far, I have Draco, Pansy, Hermione, and Neville's up. Luna and Michael Corner will be forthcoming. :0)


	18. Chapter 17: Matters of the Heart

**A/N: **Rated T for strong language. I own nothing.

Thanks so much to stella8h8chang for the beta-work. Your revisions, comments, suggestions . . . all of it, are so immensely helpful! To my readers, check out the link in my profile to stella's work: I highly recommend _**Tempus Amat Volare**_, her current major WIP.

* * *

**Chapter 17: Matters of the Heart**

"Hey! Daphne . . . wait!"

(_Dammit, Greengrass! Stop. Smiling._)

Daphne was positively relieved that Michael Corner could only see the back of her head. If he had known she was grinning at the sound of his voice . . .

"Yes, Corner?" she said, slowly turning around to face him.

"Oh, _come on_! We've been studying together for several weeks now. Surely, we're beyond last names, right?" Michael puffed at her (he was quite out of breath).

"Fine. _Michael. _You were calling for me?"

"Wait," Michael said with a smirk of mock-confusion and a finger pointing at her face. "Is . . . is that a _grin? _Could the perpetually sullen Daphne Greengrass actually be _amused _by something?" With that, Michael flashed her a wide, brilliant smile.

Daphne rolled her eyes, her own little smile staying put. "You've got my attention, _Mikey_—"

"Oi! Don't push your luck!" Michael said warningly . . . while continuing to grin. "Anyways, so, there haven't been any announcements yet about the next Hogsmeade trip, but if there was an announcement, I'd be asking you to go with me." Michael lifted his head ever so slightly, a smug, satisfied grin playing upon his lips.

Daphne looked at him confused. She let loose a small, disbelieving chuckle. "Wait. You're stopping me in the hallway _not _for an actual date, but for a future date where there's a very distinct possibility of it _not_ actually happening?"

Michael rolled his eyes, still smiling. "No. I'm letting you know that I _would_ be asking you out on any potential _future_ Hogsmeade trips so that you'll be prepared when I ask you to go on a walk with me this weekend."

Daphne felt her chest lurch forward in a very pleasant swooping sensation. She pursed and chewed on the corner of her lips to stop herself from grinning. "A _walk_? Sounds rather . . . _pedestrian_, if you ask me." She raised an eyebrow and finally let a small, lopsided grin loose.

Michael groaned and chuckled. "I cannot _believe _that one, Daphne Greengrass, would stoop so low to the utter _bowels_ of humor, to deliver such an _awful_ joke!"

Daphne bit her lip.

(_Must. Not. Give. In._)

"Maybe I won't bring along a picnic lunch like I was going to do." Michael crossed his arms.

"Why not?" Daphne asked, although any indignation was clearly abandoned in favor of humor.

"Well, when you're making crap jokes like that, I'm not."

Daphne clicked her tongue in her cheek twice, looking at Michael with a steely gaze. Blinking in time with each click, Daphne let herself smile fully.

"So, then, you're asking me out for this weekend, is that it?"

With his arms still crossed, Michael looked to his right, as if he was thinking about something. "Sure, I suppose I am asking you out." He gave her an utterly charming grin, favoring the right side of his mouth. "Saturday. We can meet around lunchtime, in front of the Great Hall. And we're still on tomorrow, right? With Arithmancy?"

"So long as Vector's still on the generalized charting section, we certainly are!"

"Ah, now I see. It's my blissful ignorance of magical numerical properties that keeps us together, is it?"

A loud siren wailed through the corridor, signaling that classes were about to start.

"That would be the bell, Corner!"

"So it would . . . _Oi_! I told you it's _Michael_!" Michael jogged backwards, his backpack hitting him squarely on the hip. See you at DC tonight, then?"

"Yes, _Mikey_!"

"_OI_!" Michael yelled, just as he disappeared around the corner.

(_Heh . . . Michael Corner . . . went around the 'corner' . . . I don't know where I come up with this stuff!_)

Since the Great Hall confrontation with Malfoy, Daphne had had a fairly nice rest of October. Between studying with Michael and meeting up with the Gryffindor trio, participating in the DC, and the factions in Slytherin tempering to a slow simmer, Daphne could actually, for once in her life, _enjoy _school.

She found that harmless, humorous flirting with Michael Corner was fun. Not the pure, physical, carnal _fun _that time with Nott and Zabini had entailed, or the sheer blissful, innocent _fun_ that characterized hanging out with Harry, Ron and Hermione. It was fun like watching a couple of Wildfire Whiz-Bangs on course for collision with each other; the sparks were definitely there, and if the two actually met, the explosion could be entertaining. . . .

But lasting?

(_I'm a bloody teenager! The only people my age that meet the person they're supposed to end up with are freakin' Ron and Hermione._)

Still, it was nice being courted. And, Daphne had thought on a number of occasions, maybe other blokes showing interest in her would make Harry (_finally_) notice her.

Daphne hadn't reckoned on one simple complication in her whole plan to befriend the trio; being in such close proximity to Harry as often as she was did nothing to lessen the attraction she felt for the little guy. In fact, the more she got to know 'The Boy Who Lived', the more Daphne found herself thinking of him. His dark hair that always seemed to want to break free from his head . . . those startling green eyes . . . the face that had lost the boyishness of yore and was slowly being replaced by the sharp angles of burgeoning manhood.

But there was the courage that defined Harry Potter to the core. Daphne admired the guts Harry showed time and time again, whether it be how he stood up to Professor Snape, or when he'd tell off other students if they spoke ill of his friends (Daphne included). Daphne could see he had this batshit crazy "hero complex" and a curious nature that propelled him to the most outrageous schemes. So much about Harry Potter appealed to Daphne's sensibilities. And now that the DC had started, Harry's prowess with Defensive magic would be on display again . . . and Daphne would probably find herself drooling over his skills.

The Defense Club (or, as Snape requested at their first meeting, Professor Snape's Defensive Magic Club; the other members always referred to it now as DC), had set their meeting time for Wednesdays, in the Great Hall to accommodate the increase in new members. As with all organizations at Hogwarts, participation was voluntary. Professor Snape had declared the Defense Club open to fourth through seventh years. First, second and third years could observe the reviews that preceded the class. The older participants worked through spell casting and lesson reviews from the preceding week; if time allowed, dueling exercises could take place between willing participants.

Well, _theoretically_ that was the plan. The first week, though, Professor Snape had insisted that the "whole Great-Hall-full of idiots, half-wits, and lazy oafs" be put through their paces with non-verbal spells. Harry, having only demonstrated proficiency with the non-verbal jinx "_Levicorpus_", was shunted aside _quite_ ceremoniously, as Professor Snape made a huge deal out of Harry's inability to successfully cast a spell "without bumbling through a verbal incantation, _Idiot Boy!_" Professor Snape then gave a skillful demonstration of non-verbal spellcasting to the rest of the students.

To Daphne's surprise, a number of younger Slytherins came to the first class. One girl, a blonde fifth year, had approached Daphne. . . .

"You're Daphne Greengrass?" the girl asked, primly.

Daphne arched an eyebrow. "Well, so they tell me. Who are you?"

"I am Willa Huxley," she said in a short, staccato tone tinged with the self-awareness of superior breeding. "I have wanted to meet you for some time, but . . ."

"You were waiting for things to calm down in our House, right?"

"Precisely!" Willa wriggled a finger, as if she were physically punctuating her comment. "I wanted to let you know that I think you were — or _are — _rather brave for supporting Harry Potter, and I agree with the assertion that He – Who – Must – Not – Be – Named is the number one priority for the Ministry—"

"I should say so," Daphne mumbled indecipherably.

"—And that my family and I support Harry Potter, and you've encouraged me to come forward and say that. So . . . thank you." Willa Huxley gave Daphne a nod.

"Can I ask what do your parents do for jobs?"

"My father is Lysander Aloysius Huxley. He's the current head of the Department of Magical Transportation, and was Seeker for Slytherin from 1973-1976. My mother is Felicity Morgana Gladwell-Huxley. She was in Hufflepuff at the same time my father attended Hogwarts. She does much philanthropic work among wizarding society, since her mother was the founder of the Gladwell Foundation, an organization for wizarding orphans. They're both close friends of Professor Slughorn, who has been kind enough to invite me to the next Slug Club meeting. He extended an invitation to my parents as well, to make an appearance as a Department Head from the Ministry . . ."

"Oh, really . . . ? Er, uh, sorry, Willa. I-I sort of need to see about a . . . er, _thing_. Can we finish this conversation later?" Daphne asked absent-mindedly. Not waiting to see Willa's nod of agreement, Daphne made her way over to Michael Corner, who had just finished talking with none other than Eddie Carmichael.

(_Egads! Talk about worlds colliding _. . .)

"Hey you," Michael sauntered over to her, hands in his pockets. He nodded toward Eddie Carmichael who was setting his book bag to the side at the Ravenclaw table, which was pushed aside to one wall of the Great Hall. "Eddie mentioned that you two know each other?"

"Oh, ho," Daphne gestured dismissively, and prayed Michael couldn't hear her heart thudding hard against her ribs. "Just through some mutual friends. How are you doing?" Daphne said, quickly changing the subject.

And after a few moments of banter, Daphne and Michael had paired up, for the first round of spellwork review, slinging Tickling Charms and Jelly-Legs Jinxes, as well as other assorted spells at each other with abandon . . .

Daphne now found herself standing in front of her Transfiguration class, staring loopily at the door.

(_Simmer down, Greengrass._)

(_Sure, the boy's attractive and all, but need you remind yourself that you are currently blackmailing Ravenclaw's very own Head Boy . . . that might not make _Mikey_ very happy . . ._)

(_Shut up! _Don't_ remind me . . ._)

Shaking herself out of her own internal argument, Daphne Greengrass strolled into the Transfiguration classroom towards the empty seat next to Hermione Granger.

* * *

"You're here early." Harry looked up to see Ginny sauntering toward him in the Quidditch pitch.

"I know. Sorta wanted to get some more flying practice in with the Cleansweep Three. Damn thing keeps banking too much to the right. I'm still working on my weight-shifting . . ." Ginny said, smiling at Harry the entire time, causing Harry to daydream even as she spoke.

He was just entranced.

Those lips!

Those freckles!

That smile! That flaming hair!

(_Godric, I can look at her all day in her Quidditch robes . . ._)

(_Wait! Where the hell did _that_ come from, Potter?_)

". . . And then I told McGonagall she could go screw herself and flipped her the bird!"

"You did _what_?"

Ginny giggled mischieviously. "Honestly, Harry, you're a million miles away. I'm over here trying to talk 'this broomstick,' 'that broomstick', this wood here and _that _wood there . . . and you're in your own little Potter-world, looking like your drooling over something. What in the world could be more important than broomsticks and wood?"

Harry blushed.

(_Yeah, Potter. Why don't you enlighten her?_)

"Oh, you know, just, er, stuff for the DC, is all." Harry tried shrugging nonchalantly, but he strongly suspected that he still had his goofy grin plastered on his face.

"You _kno_-ow," Ginny said in a sing-song voice, and sauntered over to Harry, causing him to gulp . . .

(_Sweet . . . GodricRowenaHelgaSalazar! Please don't let Ron's little sister look down. It wouldn't do to have her staring at any "evidence" of my growing attraction . . . _)

"I'll bet," Ginny said, poking her face towards Harry and leering at him in a teasing manner, "you're thinking about a certain _girl._"

(_Oh fucking . . . bloody . . . bugger . . . _)

"A certain, Quidditch-playing lass!"

(_Buggerbuggerbuggerbugger . . ._)

"Who's currently _sing_-le!"

(_Wha'?_)

"You can thank Daphne for that. I mean, Michael and she've been hanging out more, studying and everything. Cho maybe be a bit more . . . 'available' for you now, eh, Harry?" Ginny said as she nudged him with her elbow and gave him a very suggestive look.

(_Wait? Michael? Daphne? _Cho_? What the hell is she talking about?_)

"Ginny, what the hell are you talking about?"

Ginny rolled her eyes and let out a great, exasperated huff. "_Cho_, Harry! As in _Cho Chang. _As in Ravenclaw's Seeker. As in 'currently _single_' Ravenclaw Seeker Cho Chang? As in the girl who _you_ couldn't stop looking at all of last year?"

Harry had no idea how he could be simultaneously confused _and_ relieved, but he let out a sigh even though his brow was furrowed with confusion.

"Oh, er . . . right. Cho Chang," Harry repeated almost mechanically.

Ginny sighed and looked at him with a rather sympathetic expression. "Harry, Harry, Harry. I mean even Ron's found the ability to woo women. If my git of a brother can do that, you can do it! Or," Ginny's face suddenly became impassive, "uh, are you not into Cho anymore?"

Harry looked shiftily at Ginny, "Well, y'know . . . I mean . . . Cho's nice and all but . . . wait." Harry suddenly remembered something. "What do you mean, Michael Corner and Daphne? Something _is_ going on there, then?"

"Harry, I know you're not blind. Surely you've noticed that our little Daphne Greengrass has gone and _cornered_ herself a Ravenclaw. Michael asked her out this weekend," Ginny said, a grin spreading on her face.

"First of all, _horrible_ joke, Gin'." Harry shook his head with a huge smile, which then faltered slightly. "Second of all, since when has Michael been interested in Daphne?" Harry asked with a twinge of suspicion. For some reason, he didn't seem to trust this newfound interest Michael was exhibiting for Daphne.

(_This _was _the prat that acted pissy and foul with Ginny after we beat those ruddy birds at Quidditch._)

(_Which then allowed Ginny to hook up with Dean Thomas._)

(_Why'd you have to remind me?_)

"Well, Michael's always had a thing for bright girls, and Daphne is certainly one of the brighter ones. Plus," Ginny said rather breathily, "he's kind of got this thing for girls that aren't, er . . . well . . ." Ginny stumbled. This was such a rare occurrence for the chatter-bug that Harry looked at her curiously. He noticed a bit of red seeping over her face.

"Erm, I think Michael's kind of into girls that have some baggage." Ginny finally got out.

"Um, baggage?" Harry asked, his mind racing through all the potential connotations of what this 'baggage' could entail. Involuntarily (_I wasn't doing it on purpose!_), he let his eyes drift down to Ginny's backside, thinking about whether Ginny's own 'baggage' was what got Michael Corner interested in her in the first place.

(_I mean, no other bloke could possibly notice her laugh, her randy sense of humor, her awesome Quidditch skills, her vulnerability_ . . .)

"Well, yeah."

Harry's eyes snapped back to Ginny's face.

"You know . . . girls that have relationship issues, or girls that aren't necessarily emotionally available for whatever reason," Ginny's eyes fell toward the floor. Harry watched as she absently tapped her broomstick's bristles on the floor, causing them to bend worse than they already were.

"Are you saying you were one of those girls?" Harry asked her.

Ginny shrugged. "Er, uh, I liked Michael fine, of course. He's dead funny and actually, he's quite a musician. He's got a really nice voice and has a Muggle guitar that he keeps in his dormitory. He knows some Weird Sisters' and Vampire Babies' stuff and some pretty excellent Muggle music — he kept talking about some band, the What, or something like that, and the Rolling Pebbles—"

"Ah, you mean the Who and the Rolling Stones," Harry said sagely. Suddenly, remembering their conversation before departing from the Burrow at the end of summer, Harry chuckled, "Daphne's a Beatles' girl, though; maybe the relationship's doomed from the start."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Just Muggle music talk. Don't mind me." Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of something, though . . . a twinge of something akin to regret and jealousy mixed together.

(_Ginny likes blokes who can make music, huh? Or artistic blokes like Dean?_)

(_I can't even so much as_ hum_ on-key or draw a stick-figure to save my life._)

"I _think_, and I dunno if it's really accurate, that Michael's a bloke who likes it when a girl's not really _emotionally _into the relationship. Hermione reckons he likes the chase or something, and if one thing goes wrong . . ."

"Relationship over, eh?" Harry asked.

Ginny nodded. "Stick a fork in it, and all that," she said, sighing.

"So, you weren't really into a relationship with Michael, then?" Harry asked. He found himself desperately wanting to know the answer.

Ginny shrugged again. "Michael was fun, but he got right moody at times, like he'd just graduated from the Ron Weasley School of Emotional Development."

Harry snorted.

"After we broke up, I sort of realized that the relationship wasn't really ever going to go anywhere. So, I never really had anything invested in it."

There was a pause.

A _very_ pregnant pause . . .

"What about Dean?" Harry found himself asking, in a voice quite unlike his normal tone.

Ginny regarded him mildly. "Dean's a swell bloke. Who knows where it could go with him." Once again, Harry observed a blush creeping up her neck.

His attention to her beautifully reddening face was broken as he felt Ginny smack his arm.

"C'mon, Potter! We're burning daylight . . . and peak Quidditch flying conditions." And with that, Ginny jogged out to the Quidditch pitch. Harry followed after her, eyes focused on Ginny running just ahead of him.

* * *

"You did _not_ just insult 'A Day in the Life'! I'll have Sir Paul come to Ravenclaw Tower and ram a sword through your ears, seeing as how you're not even using them properly!" Daphne huffed exaggeratedly.

On the last Saturday of October, Daphne and Michael Corner had made it out through the Entrance Hall courtyard and were making their way towards a patch of trees under which they could spread out and eat lunch. Michael had engaged Daphne in a conversation about Muggle music versus wizard music to keep her attention away from the twitterings and gossipy mutterings of their peers as they left the castle together.

They weren't engaged in any direct physical contact, but they were certainly getting along famously. Daphne couldn't remember laughing so much since returning to Hogwarts for the term.

"Daphne, listen to yourself! Defending your Muggle music so _passionately_—"

"Well, when _someone_ passing himself off as a Ravenclaw can't even manage to get the very _basics_ of our music right — and by ours, I mean _all_ of bloody England . . . " Daphne mirthfully scoffed at her companion.

"All I'm saying is, as much as I love our older Muggle bands, there's some positively _wicked _things that The Warlock's Effect is doing with both magical _and_ Muggle instruments."

"Fine," said Daphne, as she straightened out the blanket and cast a Warming Charm to keep them comfortable in the coolness of the crisp Scottish fall. "But you cannot_ — _in my presence at least — ever say you don't get a song like 'A Day in the Life'. It makes me reconsider the state of your intelligence." She smirked at him and cocked an eyebrow.

Michael grinned, shook his head, and held both of his hands up in the air. "I surrender to your superior tastes in music. I should introduce you to the Static Elastics. They're probably the magical world's equivalent to the Joy Division, and their work has been popular in our underground scene for years.

"Damn, I love Ian Curtis too," Daphne said, kissing two of her fingers and pointing them toward the sky. She turned back to Michael. "I don't get it. One thing Muggles've got going for them is really diverse music. Wizards and witches — music's not a top priority or anything with them. If it's not on the WWN, it doesn't seem to exist."

Michael slapped the ground next to him. "Not to fear, Fair Greengrass! I'll let you borrow my M.A.P. and let you hear some of these magic bands that have been around for ages!"

"'Map'?"

Michael shook his head. "M – A – P. Magical Audio-Phones. It's like the wizarding equivalent to a Muggle music player. It plays specific recordings of music by magical bands. I even have a few Audio-Spellcards with the incantations for the less-mainstream wizarding bands and some of their live performances."

Daphne couldn't help but smile at him.

(_Well, he's adorable when he's enthusiastic._)

(_Wait, did I really just think that?_)

Daphne averted her eyes and chewed at her cheek. They sat silently for a few moments.

"Hey," Michael said softly, "What's up?"

Daphne scrunched up her nose. "Did you just call me 'Fair Greengrass'?"

She looked up at Michael, who was, to her surprise, blushing fairly well . . . for not being a Weasley.

"I guess I did," Michael admitted after a while.

"But you dated Ginny and Cho Chang, right?"

She watched as Michael Corner wrinkled his face. "I thought we already covered this topic a few weeks ago."

"Er, yeah, but," Daphne muttered, worrying her bottom lip. "I just . . . I think I want to know if you actually meant that. Y'know . . . you actually think I'm fair-looking?"

Daphne watched as Michael's face broke into a wide grin. "I do think you're pretty fit, yeah."

Daphne shook her head. "But I'm not. And you're used to really nice-looking girls, so what gives?"

Michael just stared at her. "You want me to tell you why I think you're attractive?"

"Well, yeah! I mean, I'm pretty average at best, I'm not athletic like Ginny or Cho since I could care less about Quidditch, and I'd rather battle with a Death Eater before putting on anything that resembles make-up or a Glamour Spell . . ."

Here, Michael stopped her rambling with his hand. "First, just because you don't play sports doesn't mean you don't have a nice body, which, in fact, you do. Second, you're probably okay with not going around with a bunch of gook all over your face is because you really don't need it. And third, you might be surprised to know that you've got a really attractive face when you're not always so sullen. I noticed during our first Arithmancy class this term, when you walked in with Hermione Granger and you'd finally lost the perma-scowl. You're really pretty. Sad day, indeed, when Parkinson and you tangled in your dormitory and your face got all bruised and cut."

Now, it was Daphne's turn to blush.

"Also, if you haven't noticed," Michael added, "I do like smart girls. And you've got a decent set of brains on you." Daphne smacked the smirking Michael.

"You never made a play for Hermione?" Daphne cocked her eyebrow.

"Well, _I've _got it on good authority that Miss Granger happens to like red-heads, so," Michael flicked at his hair, "count me out of that one."

Daphne laughed. However, despite her amusement, she couldn't help but think about some of the looks that the other students had given her and Michael.

"People don't think you should be seen with me." She whispered it, not really meaning to voice out loud her observation. She looked up at Michael, who merely shrugged.

"It's not a big deal. I mean, you're really not _that_ bad . . ."

Daphne looked at him with a darkened brow. Michael immediately recoiled.

"Oh, Daphne. I was joking. Sorry."

Daphne looked away, brow still creased. "But, you're a teenage guy. Kinda popular. You can get some of the most popular girls in the school." She looked back up at him. "You've gotta know all the rumors people say about me."

"I hear things, yeah."

"So . . . is that what you want? You like me because you think I'm easy?"

"Merlin, Daphne! Do you honestly think I only like you for _that_?"

"I don't know. But you are a 16-year-old guy. That's what you all think about."

Michael shook his head, pushing his tongue against his right cheek. "Okay . . . honestly, I wanted to get to know you last year. When you first got involved with the DA. Yes, it was because I was curious as to why a Slytherin would want to join up—"

Daphne blushed, thinking about her continuing crush on Harry . . . and somewhere, in the back of her mind, a picture of Cedric's dead body emerged.

"And," Michael continued, "I thought it was pretty cool. Ginny and I talked about it a bit — thought you might have gotten pushed around in Slytherin for joining up, but it never stopped you from coming. Hell, it didn't stop you from going with them to the Ministry of Magic, right?"

Daphne shrugged and gave a small smile.

"I figured we might have a couple of classes together this term, so I just kept my eye out on you, and, well, hear we are." Michael stopped, considering the next thing he was going to say. "I, um, did hear rumors about you and Nott and some other blokes." Michael shrugged with the distinct air of forced nonchalance. "Who knows, though, what's true or not, right."

"Er, okay . . . Nott was true. And there was Zabini. And Wayne Hopkins the Hufflepuff in fourth year. Anything beyond that, realm of fiction."

Michael sat for a moment. "Well," he chuckled, "anything else you want to let spill?"

"I'm not a virgin." Daphne blurted out. Michael let loose a shocked, snorting chortle.

"_Ohh-_kay. . . . At least you're pretty forthcoming." Michael continued to stare at her. "Do you regret it?"

Daphne shrugged. "Sex really isn't a big deal," she said with a pushed-out bottom lip. "Do I wish Nott hadn't been my first—"

"_Nott_ was your first? Really?"

Daphne nodded. Michael looked at her for a moment.

"I haven't done it yet."

Now it was Daphne's turn to chortle. In disbelief.

"Seriously, Michael? You've never . . ."

Michael shook his head.

"Not with Ginny? _Cho_?"

"No and nope! I'm kinda a nerd . . . well, a musical nerd. Ask anyone . . ."

"Ginny said you were musically inclined."

Michael shrugged. "I'm pretty talented, I'll admit."

"So, can I ask you now, why things didn't work out with Cho or Ginny?" Daphne spoke in a very straightforward manner.

"Gee, great date conversation, this is."

"I'm really curious, personally." Daphne waited to see if Michael would respond.

After a few minutes, and a couple of deep gulps and breaths, Michael spoke. "Well . . . we weren't really right for each other, were we? I guess, with Ginny, I let things build up really bad until I acted like a total prat after we lost to Gryffindor and she dumped me. I'll admit, I acted like a little shit, and maybe I should've just spoken up about things." Michael shrugged and looked at the blanket; he had been picking at a loose fabric square with a revolving moon-and-star pattern. "It wasn't her fault, though. She was a cool girl, and we had a lot of fun, but I wanted something more, and I guess I was kind of scared that she wouldn't, or didn't, and before I knew it . . ." Michael looked at Daphne, who suddenly felt a sharp pang in her chest.

(_He really did like her_ . . .)

Daphne swallowed and took in two breaths through her nose. "Okay, so Cho."

Michael grimaced. "Er, Cho was more a _fling_ than anything else. Plus, she was still having issues about Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter. Cedric, in particular. Which is totally understandable . . ."

At the mention of Cedric's name, Daphne felt herself flinch.

"You okay, Daphne?"

Daphne looked up at him briefly and nodded. "S-Sure, I'm okay." She gave him a fleeting smile.

"I mean, you asked . . ."

"No, no, I know I asked."

"Hey, all this 'dredging up the past' and music-talk's making me famished," Michael said, Levitating still-warm plates of chicken, potatoes and rolls. He let the food, plates, silverware and serviettes fall directly in front of them, and the two teenagers set about, eating in silence.

* * *

"AAARGH!" Ron yelled as the Gryffindor team entered to the changing room. "Absolute. Rubbish. Practice." He threw his Keeper gloves and arm-protectors into his cubby.

"Don't worry about it, okay?" Harry came jogging up to his irate best friend, who was in the state he was in thanks to a particularly rough practice for Ron.

"Damn fucking Godric Gryffindor's furry ballsack!" Ron exclaimed. "I'm _rubbish_, Harry! Total. Fucking. _Rubbish._" Huffing and puffing, he landed hard in his seat.

"Ron," Harry took a seat next to his friend. "You had a _rough night_ last night, remember?" Harry desperately wanted to make sure he realized that much of his poor performance today had to do with the fact that he was exhausted.

Another night of tossing and turning and waking up at two o'clock in the morning completely unable to go back to sleep would certainly do that to a person.

Harry had tried to talk to Ron about the dream he had. Ron would only tell him that it had nothing to do with Auror Winston, but had everything to do with Harry and Hermione.

"Just forget it," he had huffed at Harry at breakfast. Hermione had tried to give him a hug, but he brushed her off.

"Harry," Hermione said thickly, voice practically shaking, "what was it about?"

"He won't tell me this time, Hermione. I'll try to get it out of him and talk to him, all right?" Harry had watched Hermione nod and he took off after his best friend.

"Look Ron, tell me, or don't tell me, but I think it'd do you a world of good to take a quick nap or something before practice, okay? You can kip in the changing room or in the common room or our dormitories. Doesn't matter where or how, but it'll help you."

He watched as Ron breathed and reluctantly nodded, trudging his way up to the Gryffindor common room. Harry then ran to find Hermione, who was grimly poking at her food. He told her to wake him up closer to ten o'clock so he could make his way to practice.

With that, he himself went out to the Quidditch pitch, where he ran into Ginny, and his brain took temporary flight from his body.

Now, as Harry sat with his friend, all he could think of was ways in which he could make Ron feel better about the day so far. Harry was sure if Ron could just talk about the dream to him or Hermione, he'd feel so much better about the situation.

"Ron, look. I know we're both blokes and everything, and we're rubbish about talking about . . . er, _stuff_ and _things_ with each other, but I do think you'd do well in talking this out with someone."

"What the _fuck_ is there to talk about, Potter?" Ron spat back. "I had a fucking bad dream, I had an even _fucking _worse practice, and now all I need is to be left alone—"

"Hey."

Harry breathed out, relieved to hear the dulcet tones of the youngest Weasley sibling.

"Harry, I'll take it from here, okay?" He watched with apprehensive curiosity as Ginny threw an arm around her brother, and guided him up and outside of the changing rooms.

(_Sweet Merlin! We'll have to get lucky or something for the match._)

(_Hey! Luck! Bloody hell, Potter_. _You're a genius!_)

* * *

"I'm _not _talking about this with you, Ginevra Molly Weasley."

"For this _one time_, Ron, I'm ignoring your tone and your shit attitude and I'm going to wait here until you do tell me." Ginny and Ron had made it all the way to the Gryffindor common room. They were sitting at the sole unoccupied table, and all around them, the raucous sounds from the WWN and various wizard games were penetrating what little privacy they had.

He remained unfazed in his stedfast denial to talk about this particular nightmare. He knew he had been an utter bastard with Harry and Hermione, when they had done absolutely nothing wrong to warrant his anger.

(_But after what you saw in this dream, doesn't it make you feel better to take it out on them?_)

(_Godric, can I tell myself to stuff it?_)

"Shit," he muttered, wringing his forehead in his hand. Ron flexed his jaw as he drew his lips together. "Ginny, I can't talk about it right now, all right?" His voice sounded distant, distracted. He risked a glance to his younger sister, whom, to his utter surprise, merely smiled and nodded at him.

"If you can't talk about it, that's okay."

He thought he had gone mad. "What? No way you're Ginny," Ron snorted. "You're some _polyjuiced_ invader walking around like her or something—"

Ginny put a hand on his arm, "I assure you it is very much me, and you can tell me about it."

"You'll tell _her_ about it, though," Ron mumbled despondently.

Ginny shook her head. "I'll respect your wishes. If you don't want Hermione to know, I will _not _tell her _or _Harry."

He exhaled for a few seconds. Blinking, he licked his lips and leaned forward to her.

"I had another dream last night. In my mind, it was a nightmare, for sure, but there wasn't any death or killings or even Death Eater-y violence." Ron took a couple of deep breaths, watching Ginny nod. "I had a dream that I found Harry and Hermione together." He swallowed, a look of total loathing etched upon his expressive face. "I had a dream that they were in bed together, sleeping together, and when they saw me, they just laughed at me."

"No, Ron . . ." Ginny said softly.

He just nodded. "At times, I could see Harry's face transform into _Vicky's_," he spat out the last word, "but, the whole time, they were just laughing at me. The only word that they would say to me was 'Unworthy'. They kept saying it over and over again, laughing. . . ."

Ron squinted and rubbed hard at his eyes. "I can't shake the image, Ginny. And all today, any time I saw Hermione and Harry, all I could see was _them_ together and . . . _Godric_ Ginny! This sucks!"

"Ron." Ginny whispered in an assertive, low tone. He looked at her, his brow creased. "You need to stop this, or so help me, I'll smack you hard across your jaw with my bare hand!" Ginny held her hand up, as if to make good on her threat. Ron rflinched; looking closer at Ginny, he noted with a twinge of apprehension that her hand was vibrating, like it was itching for some action.

"_Ginny_!" He held up his hands. "Hey! Simmer down, simmer down. Why're you so angry? _I'm _the one with all these mental images getting shoved into my head. I'm the one that keeps seeing this shit over and over again . . ." He plopped his chin into the palm of his hand, his elbow propped on the table.

"It pisses me off when I hear you thinking these things, when you really start becoming your own worst enemy. You are not 'unworthy'! _Do you hear me, Ron Weasley_?" Ginny thrust her face towards him. "I almost have half a mind myself to go ahead and slap some sense into you." She leaned back into her chair, shaking her head, her eyes never leaving him. "It's your own head that's working against you, Ron. Not Harry. Not Hermione. They are your best friends, your allies. Hell, you have to admit, Hermione is more than that to you now — you and her are _together_." Ginny crisscrossed her fingers together and shoved them towards him. "You need to talk about this with Flora. At your next session. You've got to get a handle on this, because you start believing in these dreams, these thoughts, and the next thing you know, _you're _the one pushing Harry and Hermione away."

"But—"

"_No_! They weren't the ones that were angry today. _You _were! You were yelling and throwing things around and being an overall dickhead. That's not you."

Ron felt completely drained and downtrodden. He sat back in his chair, his legs apart, hands folded together and flopped between them. He stared at the floor.

"Well, that's not you _most_ of the time."

Ron lifted his head and cocked his eyebrow. Ginny was sitting with her arms crossed, a smug, lopsided smile covering her face. He furrowed his brow.

"Not really in the mood, Ginny." He watched her face fall.

"Sorry. It's just that, usually, bringing a good helping of the 'Weasley funny' does make you feel better."

"Yeah, well," Ron said sharply, getting up out of his chair and pushing it with some force, "not today." He turned back to his sister, who now had anxiety and concern written all over her face. "Ginny, I know you're trying to help out, and I do appreciate it. Loads. But this'll pass, okay? With or without me talking about it. It's just a temporary thing. I've just gotta find a way to not let it interfere with Quidditch next week." He quickly mumbled a "good night, Ginny," and trudged upstairs, without dinner in his stomach. . . .

It seemed like his head had only just touched his pillow, when he felt the first sensation of pressure on his shoulders, followed by sudden, jerky motions. Ron was being shaken to and fro by two sets of hands. He heard a pair of distinctly dissimilar voices, one feminine and higher-pitched and the other lower and most definitely male.

"Ron?"

"Hey. Wake up!"

The second sensation was the aroma of meat and vegetables hitting his nostrils just so. This caused Ron to jerk awake, fearing that his sensory system had gone wonky on him again. His eyes flung open and he saw Harry and Hermione scooting back on his bed, and a tray of shepherd's pie and fresh bread on his desk. A tall glass of pumpkin juice and a pitcher of ice-cold water sat next to his bedside dinner.

"Wha'?" Ron said groggily.

"Look, we knew you'd be hungry, and we aren't expecting you to tell us what happened last night or what you told Ginny. We're here, okay? Harry and I are here." Hermione held out her hand, gently touching his arm. "We brought you dinner too. Just eat if you don't want to talk. Harry and I will still be here, if you need us."

After several tense moments, Ron felt himself relaxing as he looked into Hermione's eyes. He allowed himself to slowly raise his hand toward her face and he rubbed her cheek softly, with the pad of his thumb. He gave her a gentle smile.

"Sorry about earlier," Ron said, bringing his hand down and looking between Hermione and Harry. Both of them shook their heads.

"Just eat," said Harry, "and get to feeling better, okay?"

Ron's eyes followed Harry as he nodded to Hermione. She looked squarely at him and she moved towards his meal, intending to feed it to him. He stopped her by grasping her hands, pulling them toward his back and encircling Hermione in his arms in the firmest, tightest embrace he had ever given her. He buried his face in the curls and waves of her chestnut hair.

Somewhere in the background, he heard the swish of a wand and saw the curtains around his bed close. His ears followed the sound of Harry's retreating footsteps as the door to the boys' dormitory clicked shut.

* * *

**A/N: **This is one of my favorite chapters, mostly because of appearance of Michael Corner. I would love to hear from you, my awesome readers! Thanks for getting this story close to 3,000 hits! So much cyber-love, cyber-cake, and cyber-cookies to my excellent readers! Please leave a review . . . love to hear from ya!


	19. Chapter 18: November

**A/N: **I own nothing. Rated T for strong language. Thanks, stella8h8chang for the beta; it means so much to me that you're helping me out.

If you haven't done so, please check out my one-shots, "A Second Thought". Draco, Hermione, and Pansy's are up, and I'm working on Neville and Luna, so hopefully, they'll get put up in March!

Also, I posted an outtake, "Our Bodies Are Magic!" that comes after this chapter. It's quite a funny little piece. Feel free to check it out!

* * *

**Chapter 18: November**

Ron Weasley woke the next morning feeling happier and more content than he had in a long time.

He started moving his hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes . . . and realized that he couldn't move his arm.

He couldn't move his arm because there was a head lying directly on top of it.

A head covered in soft, bushy, wavy hair.

A grin spread across his face.

(_Hermione . . . she's asleep with me . . . I'm waking up next to Hermione Granger . . . IN MY BED!_)

Restraining himself from pumping his fist in the air with excitement, Ron quickly did a check of the situation. Both he and Hermione were still clothed, although, their jumpers were off. Hermione was in one of his tee-shirts, and she was wearing pajama bottoms far too long and big for her. He was dressed similarly. There was no evidence of any "hanky-panky" last night. But Hermione and Ron had, indeed, spent the night together; it was an innocent night, meant to comfort and assuage the fears and insecurities riddling a young teenager's mind.

Ron brushed back the hair off Hermione's cheek, touching her face again.

(_I have to make sure this isn't a dream . . ._)

He watched her as she opened her eyes, a smile spreading across her face.

"Why hello you . . . sleep well?" Ron asked her.

"Mmm," Hermione murmured and smiled. "I slept wonderfully."

"That's good to hear, Miss Granger, because you will need _all_ your energy to deal with the matters we _will_ be discussing today!" Ron and Hermione's eyes bulged out of their heads as they heard the familiar sharp tone of Professor McGonagall, now infused with barely contained rage. Both teenagers simultaneously bolted upright and stared with appalled horror into the face of their Transfigurations Professor and the Head of Gryffindor House.

(_Oh. Bugger._)

"Imagine my surprise, Miss Granger, when I looked everywhere for you because young Daisy Shepperd needed to get in touch with her family early this morning, and _you _were very much _not_ in your bed." McGonagall's nostrils were positively enflamed with pure anger, and, for one brief moment, Ron found he was actually _more scared _of McGonagall than he had ever been of his own mum. Hermione pulled Ron's bedsheets up, covering her fully-clothed chest. Ron saw the fear in her eyes as her mentor caught them in this most compromising position.

"The last idea _anyone_ had of your whereabouts was in the Gryffindor sixth-year's boys' dormitory. I thought, 'No! Surely Miss Granger has more _sense_, more _decency_ than to sneak upstairs to the boys' rooms. Surely Miss Granger would not _spend_ _the night _in the boys' dormitory?'"

"P-Pro-Professor, please. . . ." Ron looked over and heard the pleading in Hermione's voice.

"Professor McGonagall, it was my fault. I made Hermione stay with me last night. I'm sorry—"

"Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall held her hand up, "_save_ _it_ for my office! You two will come with me _now_! Make sure you at least properly conceal yourselves with your dressing robes." The furious Scotswoman made for the open door to the staircase for the common room and stood just outside, waiting for the two shamed students to follow her.

They climbed out of Ron's bed, pulling on their dressing gowns. Ron looked around the room. All of the other occupants were wide awake, watching him with the grimmest expressions he had ever seen. Harry looked at him with apologetic eyes and mouthed "sorry" silently. Neville held up his fist in solidarity, and Seamus and Dean could only nod and grimace, with Seamus putting his hand over his heart and looking at Ron solemnly. Ron acknowledged them all in turns as he and Hermione stepped out to face McGonagall.

* * *

The other students spent the next week teasing and jibing Ron and Hermione as often as possible. Their punishments were as bad as could be expected . . . well, for Hermione, at least. 

For Ron, they were far, far worse.

"_Aargh_! I don't believe this!" Ron said, hitting his head on the table he was seated at. "_Snape_, of all people! I have to listen to _Snape_ give a lecture on . . ." his voice trailed off as he picked up the already-dogeared pamphlet, " 'Our Bodies _Are _Magic: A Guide to the Physical Development of Witches and Wizards.' He had to be _the one professor_ teaching it this month for the blokes . . ." Ron asked in disbelief as he slammed the pamphlet down onto the table, his face rumpled with disgust. "It'll be enough to permanently swear off _any_ of _that _funny business."

"Ron, if you can't even call it _sex _— its proper name, after all — you're no where _near_ ready to have it." Hermione said, clearly and directly.

"Well, definitely not with that slimy-headed _git _telling me where my things go. . . ."

Hogwarts had implemented a new disciplinary procedure for students caught together in rather _compromising _positions on the castle grounds. Besides point removal (up to 20 points could be deducted) and detention to be given at the discretion of the Heads of the Houses, the parents of the couple would be notified and each half of the couple would be ordered to sit through a compulsory lecture regarding witch and wizard sexuality. The school nurse handled the discussion for girls.

However, the boys' instructor changed every month.

"Hermione, _you_ can talk calmly about all of this. _You_ have Pomfrey doing your lecture! That's all right. She's got experience with this sort of stuff. Hearing Snape talking about our 'bits and pieces,' our 'bait and tackle,' our 'swish and flick' . . ." Ron shivered and shook his head.

"Weasley, don'cha worry 'bout it," Seamus Finnegan piped up. He slapped Ron on the back. "The lectures fly by quicker than Potter catching the Golden Snitch! I've already had to sit through it twice meself. Although," Seamus said with some small nods, "I s'pose hearin' Flitwick and Slughorn go on and on about how their bodies and _our_ bodies work together is a damn sight better than hearin' ol' Snape talk about stuff like tha'!"

Word had traveled around the school about the two Gryffindor prefects getting caught in Ron's dormitory. Daphne Greengrass had sauntered over to them the very next day, smiling ever so cheekily. "Weasley, I'm really impressed. You seem to be getting more action than many of the Slytherin blokes these days!" Hermione hissed and stomped off as Daphne giggled at her huffiness. The following Tuesday, after receiving a letter from her parents stating that, even though they're sure Ron is a decent boy, they wished Hermione had exhibited better judgment with her behavior, Ron had fled from the Great Hall to the Gryffindor common room, adamantly refusing to go to class and utterly embarrassed with Hermione's parents finding out about the situation.

Ron's family had responded in a number of different ways. Bill and Charlie sent letters telling Ron they'd been through the same situation themselves, and that he was now "a Weasley _man_!" ("Well, of course I was. What else did they think I am? A tea cosy?") Fred and George sent Ron and Hermione a box of their developing line of products "to make the mood just right for that _very_ special witch tonight!" ("I'm _not_ putting anything on me _or _Hermione that has that bloody 'W' on it!") The Twins also sent Ron a parchment detailing every Contraceptive Spell known, since "the Weasleys are a rather _fertile_ bunch!" . . . "With a capital 'F', right Fred?"

And then, of course, came the Howler, courtesy of his mum. . . .

"_**RONALD WEASLEY**_**! I AM OUTRAGED THAT YOU HAVE LOST ALL SENSE OF DECENCY AND PROPRIETY! YOUR FATHER AND I RAISED YOU TO HAVE THE UTMOST RESPECT FOR GIRLS AND WOMEN, AND TO **_**NOT **_**ENGAGE IN BEHAVIOR BEFITTING A **_**CAVEMAN**_**. . . !"**

Ron's ears continued to ring all throughout the week as he prepared for the upcoming Quidditch match. Although he was no longer grouchy or tired from his nightmares, Ron appeared distracted during the final few practices. And it was perfectly understandable. The students all over the school were taking the Mickey out of Ron. He had been completely mortified by the reactions of his and Hermione's parents. Worst of all, the one innocently beautiful night that he spent with Hermione Granger, the girl of his dreams, was now being used as fodder against them both.

All in all, it added up to one _very_ unfocused Ron Weasley.

The morning of the Quidditch match arrived, and with it, so did Ron's increasing nerves. He sat at breakfast, repeating, "can't do it . . . completely mental . . . utterly rubbish," over and over like a demoralizing mantra. Harry and Hermione sat on either side of him, and Ginny to his front.

"Ron, don't do this, you're good, okay? You won the Gryffindor Cup last year," Ginny said.

"Ron, she's right," Hermione said as she glanced over Ron's shoulder with a troubled look on her face. Harry brought around a glass of pumpkin juice and placed it in front of him.

"Ron, go ahead. Drink up. Every last drop."

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, an utterly scandalized look frozen on her face. "Don't drink that Ron!"

Ron could only stare at her blankly.

"Ron, Harry did something to that drink. You shouldn't drink it _at_ _all_! We're already in such trouble as it is . . ."

Ron knew Hermione would disapprove if he went ahead and let the pumpkin juice pass through his lips. However, he was beyond the point of caring, and he went ahead and downed the entire glass.

"With my luck, Hermione, they'll sack me from the team, then," Ron said morosely, setting the glass down and following Harry out of the Great Hall. He reckoned Hermione was the only person he could actually _hear_ shaking their head.

A series of unexpected, but no-less fortunate events happened next, in quick succession of each other. Several of the clouds that had been obscuring the sun burned off, and Demelza Robins informed them that Slytherin was playing their reserves, "due to an injury to their Chaser, and Malfoy's sick too!" Although this latest bit of information peaked Harry's interest ("We'll see if Daphne's up for some information gathering!" Harry told Ron as they were changing, much to Ron's chagrin), Ron stopped mid-lacing up of his boots.

"Harry, what did you just say?"

"All I said was it's a lucky day for us today."

Realization smacked Ron upside the head.

(_Bloody bastard! That bloody – ingenious – bastard!_)

"You slipped me Felix Felicis! In my pumpkin juice! That's why Hermione went all mental at breakfast . . ."

Harry merely walked over and slapped Ron firmly on the shoulder and smiled.

"C'mon. Let's show these snakes how to play a game of _Quidditch_!"

* * *

The first Gryffindor victory tucked under their belts, Harry mollified Hermione with the information that there hadn't been any Felix Felicis in Ron's drink after all. Harry had just wanted to make sure Hermione thought there was Felix Felicis in the drink and to get Ron to believe it too. 

"Well, I know I was angry at first, Harry, but that was quite clever," Hermione said, acquiescing just before Ron swooped in and picked her up. She squeaked in surprise as he twirled her around and around.

"Who's _your _King, Granger?" Ron growled with a smile on his face. He waggled his eyebrows at her.

"Hmm . . . Dumbledore? Charles Philip Arthur George?" Hermione responded with a smirk.

"Erm, who?" Ron asked, pulling away with a confused look on his face.

Hermione laughed. "Our Muggle Prince, Ron."

"You cheeky girl," Ron grinned and kissed her on each cheek. "Hey, did anyone see Daphne after the game? I'd love to have seen the look on her face when Harry caught the Snitch."

"Ron, it's not nice to rub in your victories, especially one of the more lop-sided ones," Hermione said with a wink and a grin. "Besides, we'll be meeting up with Daphne later on . . ."

A few hours (and one nearly-decimated Gryffindor common room) later, Harry, Ron and Hermione met up with Daphne near the kitchens.

Ron guffawed away at Daphne's sullen, scowl y face. "Oh, _c'mon _D'! We won it fair and square!"

"Not according to Harper, you didn't. Some _idiot _Seeker thought it was necessary to cheat by accusing one of our players of bribery!"

"_Me_?" Harry said disbelievingly, but with a smile on his face. "You're calling me an idiot and sticking up for Malfoy? Oh, Daphne, I didn't realize you could be so gracious in defeat." Harry threw his arm around her and squeezed her firmly. Ron grinned even wider as he watched Daphne fight the smile threatening to pop up on her face.

They sat at the large wooden table in the kitchen, eating and drinking while Ron recapped the entire game so he could watch Daphne's face growing more and more annoyed.

He didn't count on her near-perfect aim when she sent a chunk of pastry smack into the middle of his forehead.

"_OI_!"

"What? I wanted to see these great Keeper moves up close and personal!"

"All right! That's it . . ." and Harry and Ron sent food flying at Daphne, who fought right back. Hermione ducked out of the way, letting the fight play out for a few more minutes.

Finally, when Daphne sent a whole slice of pumpkin-juice soaked chocolate cake down the front of Ron's clothes, the redhead finally declared "_Uncle_!" and dissolved into fits of laughter along with the other three teens, his chocolate-stained shirt and jumper plastered against his body.

"So," Harry started, once they got themselves under control. "You hear anything about Malfoy getting sick? Was he really ill, or do you think he was up to something?"

Daphne looked taken aback. "Oh, yeah. I forgot that's why Harper was playing." She shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know anything. Of course, I'll keep my eyes and ears open . . ."

* * *

Even as open as Daphne was to information about Malfoy, she learned nothing new regarding whether Malfoy was actually sick during the game. November seemed to fly by for the trio and Daphne. The DC was in full swing, and new faces kept popping up left and right. Daphne thought the growing number of Slytherins were mostly because they were expecting to see "Snape hex the buttocks off Harry," to which Harry could only reply, "Gee, thanks D'. The support is much appreciated." 

"Anytime, Potter!"

Harry had managed to convince Hermione to join him and Ginny for the Slug Club meeting. Hermione scoffed at first when she noticed Ron's mood darken anytime it was mentioned. The second week into November, Hermione skipped toward Ron and Harry, who were both walking toward the Great Hall.

"You're in a lovely mood today. Find out you were the first Hogwarts student to score 250 on an exam?" He leaned in to kiss her forehead.

"Ha, ha, Ron. I actually just came from Professor Slughorn's office. I asked him whether my invitation to his Christmas party was still open."

Ron simply glowered. "You _want_ to go to that bloody stupid _Slug_ _Club_? That git's only after Harry for Harry's reputation or something, and he doesn't even bloody _remember_ who the hell I am—"

Hermione cut him off before he could really get going. "I asked him if I could still come, and he said yes, and told me I could bring a guest of choice." She smiled and linked her arm through Ron's. "And guess who I'm going to ask."

Harry grinned and shook his head at his two best mates.

"Hmm . . .well, I guess you've still got time if you want to owl ol' _Vicky_ . . ." Ron said, smirking.

"Oh, _Weasley_!" Hermione smacked him in the chest, laughing right along with Ron and Harry.

Hermione's information about Slughorn's party got Harry to thinking. He could bring a guest. A date. His brain kicked into high gear as one name came to mind.

(_Ginny . . . who's probably already going . . . with Dean . . . DAMMIT_!)

Well, maybe he could ask someone as a friend.

(_Let's see . . . Daphne? Luna?_ _Er . . . Cho? Yeah, that'll happen . . ._)

"Knut for your thoughts, Harry."

"What? Oh, er, nothin', Ron. Don't worry about it."

"Harry, you look like something's bothering you." Hermione pulled away from Ron briefly. "What is it?"

"Actually, it's really nothing. I was just thinking that if we can bring dates to the party, should I ask someone?"

"Why, Harry Potter! Who's the lucky lady, then?" Ron stood, grinning at his friend with his arms crossed. The way he was looking at him made Harry want to find the nearest hidden passage in the walls and hide.

"Ron, don't tease. Harry, you have plenty of time to find a date, and you don't have to if you don't want to. We could go all together," Hermione said brightly.

"No, no. You and Ron should definitely go together," Harry said, as he saw a shadow pass over Ron's face. "Let's get going to dinner, okay?" Having successfully changed the subject, Harry, Ron and Hermione continued on to dinner.

* * *

"Oh, Blaise!" Daphne exclaimed. She had cornered him in the library on a rainy Saturday in November. "You can be such a drama queen." 

Blaise Zabini shot her an angry look. Daphne immediately recoiled.

"Er, poor word choice. Sorry."

"Greengrass, what do you want? " Zabini said impatiently. "I'm up to my eyeballs here in Defense and Charms essays."

"Blaise, you know exactly why I'm coming over here to talk to you. I've been, in your words, 'pestering you until you want to take your wand and pierce your eardrums every time you hear my voice'. Which, I guess, is no small feat on my part, so—" and, with that, Daphne curtsied and bowed in front of him.

Still crouched down, Daphne lifted up her face, a smirk playing upon her lips. She caught Zabini's eyes just as he rolled them and went back to ignoring her.

"You're such a spoilsport." Daphne pulled the chair across from him out and flopped into it. She looked around, making sure there was no Madam Pince in sight. Daphne turned her attention back to Zabini. She heard him take some deep breaths.

"And you can go tell Ed- . . . er . . . Carmichael, that I don't give a flying hippogriff how much he's given to you to talk to me. Nothing you can say to me will change my mind."

(_What a stupid, stubborn fool!_)

Daphne considered her options carefully. She thought through everything she knew now about Blaise Zabini. She figured her best bet was to aim for the sorest, most sensitive spot for him — the vulnerable area she herself had exploited to force Zabini to act as her protector.

"Blaise, are you happy?" she asked, with no trace of sarcasm or humor. She watched Zabini place his quill down gently.

"If I answer your questions, will you let me be?"

Daphne nodded.

"I'm fine then. Go. Away."

"Blaise," Daphne said earnestly, "Blaise, you miss him, don't you?"

She saw Zabini's face flinch, and knew she was getting to him.

" Blaise, I can understand why you'd hate me. Fine, okay? But why take it out on him, too?"

Still no answer.

"He thinks you're in love with him too. Are you?"

"Greengrass, for the love of—"

"Answer me, then. Blaise _Fedele_ Zabini — you're in love with him too!"

"_FINE! _Yes, all right? I feel the same." Zabini looked up at her, but, this time, his face wasn't filled with anger.

Blaise Zabini looked like he was in pain.

But not the type of pain that affects the body physically. . . .

"You realize that if Voldemort got his way, pure-bloods such as yourself would be forced to continue the bloodlines, to marry pure-blood witches and have as many pure-blood children as possible." Daphne made to reach for his hand; she had learned a long time ago from Hermione Granger that this was a good way to convey sincerity and to get an uncooperative individual to listen to her.

She was surprised that Blaise didn't pull away from her.

"Why, Blaise? Why does it have to be pure-blood versus everyone else? Why can't it just be about witches, wizards, and Muggles? Aren't we such a small community already that denying ourselves access to non-pure-blood wizards or witches _potentially_ kills us off? And what about marrying Muggles—"

"Greengrass, we _have_ to keep the bloodlines pure! Mudbloods _take_ their magic from others, right? You know that. There was that article Damien Stallsworth's great-grandfather, 'The Healer', wrote, remember? Stallsworth brought it in to us in our second year?"

No way was Daphne forgetting that. 'The Healer' in question was one Healer Phillip Marcus Stallsworth, a famous wizard who specialized in research on Muggle-borns and compared magical powers among different groups of pure-bloods, half-bloods, and Muggle-borns. He had come to the conclusion in his article that magical abilities decreased as blood purity decreased. More importantly, Healer Stallsworth also concluded that, genetically, Muggle-borns had no way to inherit magical abilities from either parent, so the only real likelihood if there was a particularly powerful Muggle-born witch or wizard, they would have had to take their powers from another witch or wizard whose blood was substantially purer than theirs.

Daphne shook her head in exasperation. "What if, Blaise, just _what if _'The Healer' was wrong, hmm? Case in point, one: Hermione Granger—"

"I'd tell you there's a reason why she aligned herself with a half-blood and a pure-blood. Actually, an entire _family's worth_ of pure-bloods — who also happen to be the most disgusting blood-traitors that ever existed." Zabini said, grimacing with disgust as he nodded.

Case in point, two: Neville Longbottom." Daphne flicked her wand, causing it to emit a shower of sparks.

"As much as I think there are exceptions to the pure-blood rule, I could say that maybe '_Dung_-bottom'," Zabini sniggered, "might not have yet developed his full magical capabilities."

"Well, then you couldn't you also say Malfoy hasn't developed fully yet, or would he be an exception to the pure-blood rule? He's pants at throwing Defensive spells—"

"He's fair at Potions, though—"

"And Longbottom's a bloody genius at Herbology, don't forget."

Blaise scoffed. "That's _Herbology_, isn't it? Doesn't take much for that. I mean, Professor Sprout's Head of _Hufflepuff_, for Merlin's sake!"

"Oh, ho, Zabini." Daphne waggled her finger. Even though she agreed with Zabini's assessment of Herbology, she still needed to challenge him. "Plants, herbs, other botanical organisms are key to Potions. You know that as well as I do."

"Well," Zabini waved his hand dismissively, "why are you even bothering still, with your little 'Zabini Challenge'? Carmichael paying you a whole lot to get me to come around, eh?"

Daphne paused for a moment, staring at Zabini.

(_Oh hell, just tell him . . ._)

"He's paying me double, Zabini, if you must know."

Zabini let out a great, sarcastic laugh. "_Double_, Greengrass? Well, you can certainly milk a situation for all its worth." He shook his head. "Oh, dammit! Who am I kidding? If I was gutter-trash like you are, I'd probably do the same thing."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "I would be flattered if I wasn't so insulted." She locked stares with Zabini. "Where are you now, with this whole thing?"

"Same as it ever was, Greengrass."

"Damn."

"But keep trying," Zabini said dryly. "You need to earn Carmichael's Galleons."

"Do I also need to be your sounding board? Apparently Carmichael feels the need to spill his guts out to me too, because I spent two hours with him, listening to him go on and on about his _feelings_. Bloke's head over heels with you, which is totally and completely mind-boggling for me." Daphne grunted and she watched Zabini's face and eyes as he stared just beyond her head.

"Zabini? Blaise?" Daphne said cautiously.

"As much as I hate to admit it, Greengrass, you're right. You _are_ the only other person besides Eddie that knows about me."

For the next couple of hours, Daphne sat in the library with Zabini, listening to him discuss _his _version of his relationship with Eddie Carmichael. Which, in reality, wasn't all that much different from the Ravenclaw's, except Zabini tended to provide more colorful commentary in the form of one sarcastic comment after another.

After breaking free from Zabini's _awfully fun _conversation regarding his very confused love life, Daphne headed out of the library . . . and smacked right into a couple of unidentified males.

"_OOMF_!" she grunted. Looking up, she saw the faces of two Ravenclaw sixth-years, Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot.

Michael Corner's closest friends.

(_Gulp!_)

"Oh, er, hey Daphne," Terry said in a mild voice. Anthony Goldstein merely nodded at her, and Daphne noticed his nostrils widening slightly and his mouth setting in a rather haughty line.

"Um, hello," Daphne responded, sounding more like a question than a direct response.

"Actually," Terry and Anthony looked at each other, Anthony cocking one eyebrow, "we were just talking about you . . . and, well, you know we're friends with Michael, right?"

"Yeah, I think most of the_ DA_ knows that you're friends with Michael." Daphne placed emphasis on the abbreviation, so they'd remember she wasn't just a dirty Slytherin girl.

She was a dirty Slytherin girl who joined the DA and fought at the Ministry.

"Right," the boys looked at each other again, "well, we know that you two are . . . er, whatever," Terry continued. "To be totally honest with you, we're . . ."

"We're concerned, Greengrass," Anthony Goldstein added. Daphne thought he looked inordinately smug and proud of something.

(_What the bloody hell crawled up his arse and made him king of the bloody world?_)

(_He looks like he shits rainbows and puppies . . ._)

"You're concerned? About?"

Anthony creased his brow. "Michael, of course." Terry nudged him, trying to get him to be a bit more tactful, but Anthony ploughed forward. "I mean, Greengrass, yeah, you fought with Harry Potter, and you were with us in the DA. But Michael's our friend," Anthony said in a measured tone, "and we want to make sure he's not falling under any negative influences." Daphne was rendered speechless and Anthony went right on with his spiel. "We know about your reputation, and we think," he looked back at Terry, who was rolling his eyes and shaking his head, "we think that Michael doesn't need someone who's so . . . so . . ."

Daphne crossed her arms, and she knew by the way both boys recoiled slightly, that her face was positively thunderous.

"You don't want your buddy Michael with a slag, _right_? The Slut of Slytherin, eh? I'll give you Malfoy's favorite nickname for me . . . The Whore of Gryffindor! I really like _that _one, considering I've never even _seen_ a Gryffindor starkers."

She stalked up to them, slowly, her anger present in every step. "Why can't he just choose who he wants to be with? Is it hurting him that he likes me? Or are you afraid I might 'taint' you? People might associate you with someone who's vile like _me _because I'm dating your friend? I saw how you lot looked at me the couple of times I sat with Michael at dinner. You think I'm disgusting or something!"

Anthony was just about to respond, when Terry intervened. "Hey, Daphne," Terry said, trying to keep the situation from escalating. He pulled her away from Anthony, who was clearly still fuming. "We're both just concerned about Michael, that's all. We don't wanna see him all mopey like he was before, after Ginny, right?" Terry gave her small grin. "He can be a right moody bastard, and I don't wanna have to baby-sit his grumpy arse if someone dumps him." Terry rolled his eyes. "Again."

Daphne felt her face softening. "Yeah, s-sorry. I get a bit testy when _some people_," she shouted over her shoulder toward Anthony just behind them, "believe everything they hear. Most of which is spread around by people that don't like me." Daphne looked at Terry and let herself smile at him.

Terry gave her a nod. "Well, good, then." Letting out a breath, he turned around and grabbed Anthony by the arm. "We'll see you around, Daphne," Terry turned over his shoulder and gave her a quick wave. Daphne could hear their back and forth conversation as they made their way down the stairs.

"_Idiot_! You could've been a bit nicer, y'know—"

"Oh, whatever, Boot! She was defensive. Someone's not _that_ defensive about lies and rumors—"

"Give her the benefit of the doubt, Tony. Mike seems to've, and she's friends with Harry Potter . . ."

"Probably wants to shag him, just like Weasley's sister . . ."

Daphne shook off the conversation, until she got to that last statement . . .

(_Really? That's . . . interesting . . ._)

She gave a start, realizing how close it'd been to curfew when she was in the library, and hurried off to Slytherin House.

* * *

"Whoa! Hey, D? _Daphne_!" Ron shouted at a scurrying Daphne Greengrass. Panting, she turned around to face him, an amusedly annoyed expression passing over her face. 

"Oh, it's just you."

"Your enthusiasm is _overwhelming_. Wait," Ron said, his brow troubled, "why aren't you back in your common room? Everything okay?"

"Hold on. Ron, are you actually concerned about me?" Daphne put her hands on her hips in dramatic fashion, and peered at him very suspiciously. "You look _and_ smell like Ron Weasley, but I'm not buying it."

"You should watch the sarcasm," Ron smirked. Daphne grinned at him.

"Never, Ron. As far as I'm concerned, you're always fair game." Ron shook his head.

"Anyways, Daphne, I'm finding I'm actually concerned about how you're doing. Call it a momentary lapse of weakness on my part." Ron watched as Daphne's smirk changed to a more relaxed smile.

"Well, I'm actually . . . weird . . . right now." Daphne fell into step besides him.

"Er, weird?"

"Yeah . . . just trying to escape my past, is all." Daphne lapsed into silence. They continued on in the direction of Ron's patrols. "Hey, where's Hermione?"

Ron grimaced. "Well, she's doing her class with Pomfrey tonight. Apparently, they schedule these things on Saturday evenings to prevent 'continued fraternization among the students'."

Daphne scrunched up her nose. "You sound like McGonagall, Ron."

"That was sort of the point."

Daphne chuckled and snorted at the same time. "Seriously, I never thought that _she'd _attend one of those classes before I got a chance to. Who'd've thunk that this precious mug," Daphne said in a babyish voice as she pressed Ron's cheeks together and gave his nose a pinch, "would be responsible for so much corruption?"

"How many bloody times do I have to keep saying it? _Nothing. Happened. _End of bloody story!" Ron's voice increased in volume; he was practically shouting in exasperation.

"Oh, don't get your wand in a knot." Daphne fluttered her hand dismissively, her grin turning a bit smug. "It's just so _cute_, you and Hermione. Even spending the night with her is so _fucking _innocent." She wrinkled her nose to emphasize her point. "Minus the fucking, of course."

Ron laughed despite his strong desire to stay annoyed at Daphne. "Still can't believe I'm even talking about this stuff with you."

"Oh, are we back to that, now?"

"_No_! Merlin, Daphne, not everything is against you. All's I meant is, compared to where we were at last year, about this time, and the fact that I honestly loathed _all _Slytherins at one point, it's nice that we're actually friends, okay?" Ron looked at her with a happy, resolute face. He noticed she was blushing.

"Yeah, Ron. It's nice that you actually think, er, _that_ about me, that we're friends." Daphne appeared to be smiling, but rather reluctantly so. "Friends really are in short supply for me."

"I don't know about that," Ron said with a grin. "I've seen you with that Ravenclaw git Corner."

Daphne slapped him across the chest. "Michael is _not_ a git!"

"Wow! Look at you. On a first-name basis with the bloke!"

"Sod off, Weasley." Daphne struggled not to smile. Ron could only laugh at her.

"It's cute, this little newfound interest you've got in scrawny, music-loving, nerds."

"Shut it!" Daphne once again slapped at Ron's arm humorously. They walked a few more moments in silence.

"What's on your mind?" Ron asked his companion.

Daphne shrugged. "Just thinking about friends. You, Harry and Hermione. It's been really different. I mean, I know Harry _wants_ me to investigate The Blond Rat if it's possible, but I actually do feel, even if I didn't spy on Malfoy, you three would still be nice to me. And that's . . . well, it's _nice_. No expectations. No bribery or blackmail. I can just talk to you guys, y'know? And I know you might not agree with some of the things I've done, but you're not chucking me aside. "

"Believe me, I know." Ron walked a bit further, chewing on his lip. "You think that it's absolutely impossible for anyone to even give two shits about you, or to worry about you, _or_ to not turn their back on you. And you wonder," Ron continued, eyes focused in front of him, "if there's anything you could do that might screw it all up. Because, it wouldn't be _them_ making a mistake — not 'The Chosen One', not 'The Brains' — but, you, because you're just _you_." Ron turned back to face Daphne, who had stopped walking alongside of him. He saw her face as she was clearly contemplating what he had just said.

Daphne walked forward slowly to meet up with him. "Ron," she started, speaking softer and in a more gentle tone than she'd ever used with him, "I'm really glad that I know you. Even though I _try_ not to listen to you, or think about what you would say about the things I do, I can't help it." Daphne grimaced and kicked at an uneven spot in the floor. "Truth is, yours has been and will probably continue to be," she wrinkled her nose, "the one opinion that really matters to me . . . even though I _really_ hate that." Daphne rolled her eyes at him.

Ron felt his jaw muscles flex. Giving her a small smile, Ron spoke lightly to her. "So, what you're saying is you listen to me, what I say counts to you, and your greatest life's ambition is that want to be like me?" Ron pointed at himself and fully grinned, as Daphne developed a _very_ annoyed look.

"_Oh, _for the love of Merlin. . . . why the hell do I bother?" Daphne tutted and stomped away.

Laughing, Ron met up beside her and threw his arm around her shoulders in a very chummy fashion. "Oh, c'mon Daffy . . . you've gotta learn to take a joke sometimes. But really, I'm serious. Thanks for that."

Daphne, with furrowed brow, merely nodded. "You're welcome, Ron." Ron looked at her with a small grin, paused, and proceeded to playfully rub his fist into her scalp, laughing at her gasp of surprise.

"_Oi_!"

Ron continued to laugh. "C'mon. I'm almost finished with patrols and I could do with a quick snack." Daphne and Ron finished patrolling the floor and made their way to the kitchen for a bite.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you to all my readers who've put this story on their alerts, who've favorited this work and me as a writer! And thanks to all my reviewers. I love hearing from you guys, and definitely let me know about things I can fix or do better on . . . A smart fanfic writer once said, "Reviews are the only currency writers of fanfiction get." And, believe me, I value each and every single one :0) 


	20. Chapter 19: A Very Harry Christmas

**A/N: **I own nothing. Another big thank you to my beta, stella8h8chang. Seriously, you've helped me so much with revisions and comments.

And thank you to everyone who's reviewed this story. I now have over 100 reviews on it! You guys have been so encouraging. And to everyone that has me on alerts and favorited this work . . . so much cyber-cake, cyber-cookies, and cyber-soda to y'all (and cyber-wine to the over-21 crowd ;0)

* * *

**Chapter 19: A Very 'Harry' Christmas!**

November came and went. December arrived with word of increasing attacks on Muggle-born families.

And with it, the information of a new allegiance _finally_ made the front page of the _Daily Prophet_.

"Werewolves," said Harry, perusing through the most current issue of the _Prophet_. "This time, they attacked a family during November's full moon cycle. Says here the child is at St. Mungo's for observation." Harry threw down the newspaper and picked up the latest edition of _The Quibbler._

"So, what are these attacks all about? To prove some point, or to build up an army for the future?" Ron asked.

"I have no idea," Hermione said. "It seems calculated enough to create an army. The attacks do increase around the full moon — it even says that October and last month's were noticeably more severe." Hermione sighed and the boys stared silently into the fireplace of the Gryffindor common room.

The prefects had been given orders to assist with Christmas decorations around the castle. However, the holiday spirit had been noticeably dampened when the partnership between Voldemort and the dark beasts had been publicized.

During one particularly challenging decorating session, Ron and Hermione paused upon hearing a girl singing behind them.

"'So _this_ – is – _Christ_-maaas . . . and what have you done?" she sang out loudly to Ron and Hermione. "Another year ov-_vah_ . . . a new _one's _jus' begun!" She finished with a wink to the two Gryffindor prefects.

And a _very _Happy Christmas to you, Daphne," Hermione responded with a smile. "I'm surprised, though. John Lennon. Really?"

"I am convinced that Lennon — may he rest in peace — is actually a wizard. No Muggle could possibly have written 'Strawberry Fields Forever' . . . or 'Revolution No. 9'," Daphne said, even as she scrunched up her nose and gave a little shiver of disgust. "Bloody awful that song is. Not 'Strawberry Fields', mind you. Anyways, I come with a bit of _in_-formations." Daphne waited until Ron and Hermione were closer to her so she could whisper. "Malfoy and Professor Snape had it out with each other a few days ago. In the Defense classroom. Pretty bad too, I think."

Ron and Hermione snapped their necks around quickly and looked squarely at Daphne. "Really? How d'you know?" asked Ron.

Daphne held up a flesh-colored lump, which Ron quickly recognized as . . . "Extendable Ears, eh?"

Daphne shrugged. "Never leave the dormitory without them. They were well into it, though, by the time I was able to whip these out."

"You have any idea what the argument was about?"

"The only thing I could actually hear was Professor Snape telling Malfoy, 'You'd do well, Mr. Malfoy, in remembering the consequences of failure.' And Ratface — _unbelievably _— spoke back to him. 'I don't need any reminder, Professor. And you'd do well to _leave_ _it_ _alone_.' There were some other harsh words spoken, but those were the ones I can remember directly."

Ron and Hermione looked at each other. "What d'you reckon, O' Brainy One?"

Hermione gave him a tight-lipped expression. "Well, _Red_, I 'reckon' that it could be about a number of things." Hermione turned back toward Daphne. "It _is_ unusual for Malfoy and Professor Snape to be arguing—"

"As Muggles would say, 'it's a sign of the apocalypse'."

Hermione nodded. "It could still be about a number of things, though. There was nothing more specific?"

Daphne shook her head. "Nothing about what 'it' could be, or what 'consequences' Professor Snape was talking about. Do you want to tell Harry?"

Ron nodded. "I mean, if there's nothing going on with it, and it's just Malfoy and Snape arguing about homework or something, that's fine. If there's anything more to it . . . "

"I can dig further—"

"_NO_!" Both Ron and Hermione yelled at her simultaneously and waved their hands out to her. "Daphne," Hermione managed, "it wouldn't be worth it if it caused you any more fights or arguments in Slytherin. You've said that things have calmed down in the house considerably since, well, since . . . "

"Since I blackmailed two blokes to force them to pay me _and_ protect me?"

"Er, yes." Hermione said, slightly cringing.

"I don't really fancy ruining the precarious détente that I've enjoyed since September. I do keep waiting for the other shoe to fall or something."

"And we're not going to ask you to do anything to jeopardize that, okay?" Ron assured her.

Daphne looked at the both of them and gave a small smile and a nod. Turning on her heels, she walked away from Ron and Hermione, and, with her hands in the pockets of her robes, returned to her song. "War is over . . . If you want it. War is over . . . now."

* * *

Ron's mum sent a letter at the beginning of December, enclosing with it a note reminding Ron to invite Harry, Hermione and Daphne to the Burrow for Christmas. This wasn't a problem for Harry or Hermione, as they were already expecting the invitation. Harry was a definite, and Hermione had promised she would be splitting the holiday between the Weasleys and her family.

Ron, in his infinite wisdom, had forgotten about Daphne and that she probably wouldn't assume she'd be invited to the Burrow — or anywhere else — for Christmas.

"Are you serious? Did Dumbledore ask you to do this?" Daphne inquired of Ron suspiciously.

Ron held his hands up. "No, no. This is all me . . . well, and Mum and Dad _and _my family. It seems that the Weasleys aren't quite finished with you," Ron grinned at her.

Daphne raised her eyebrows. "You're sure? You're not taking the Mickey out of me?"

Ron put his hand over his heart and held the other up beside his head. "I solemnly swear I'm as serious as Dragon Pox." And the Gryffindor and Slytherin smiled, affectionately and genuinely, at each other.

Heartened by the possibility of having a Christmas where she didn't have to worry about Child Protective Service visits or learning the names of any new children that Miss Proctor might've taken in, Daphne informed her foster mother about her plans. She was thankful that Elvira Proctor was a Squib; the sight of an owl bearing a note on its leg wouldn't shock her.

Daphne's seventeenth birthday came to pass on the tenth of the month. Miss Proctor had been kind enough to send an assortment of Muggle candies that Daphne loved and a black turtleneck jumper. Her note to Daphne read: "Happy Birthday and Happy Christmas, Daphne. I'm glad that you've made some friends at school. The Headmaster already took care of CPS, so no worries. Be safe."

And Daphne felt a sudden, temporary surge of guilt for all the bad things she had ever said or did to the middle-aged woman. Smiling, she carefully tucked away the note into her trunk before heading downstairs to her common room.

* * *

Throughout the fall and on into the winter, the DC carried on in full force through the end of school. After having covered non-verbal spellcasting as thoroughly as the Chudley Cannons getting beat season after season, Harry was able to wrestle control of the club and review Patronus Charms with older DA members. These members, in turn, assisted the newest members who had just joined the DC during the most recent term.

Much to Harry and Ron's surprise, a couple of Slytherin students demonstrated they could produce a semi-corporeal Patronus after only a few attempts.

"Maybe Daphne's problem with her Patronus wasn't necessarily her house, but just her not having any happy thoughts, Ron," Hermione spoke up when the redhead remembered the Slytherin's difficulty with the charm last year.

Harry spent the next few DC lessons working with the students in creating magical fires, the best way to defend oneself against cold-natured Dark Creatures, such as Inferi. The tricky part was maintaining control of the fire while shielding oneself from any potential injuries.

Since Harry had had just as much experience with Flammable Defense Spells — and other N.E.W.T.-level magic — as the rest of the class, Snape taught the portion of the DC directly related to his class, with Harry acting as his assistant. He then allowed Harry to handle the review portions and any dueling exercises between the students. Snape seemed not to mind having Harry as an assistant for the class, as it allowed him to snap at the Gryffindor whenever he felt like it.

"_Potter_! Do pay attention to the left side of the room. They're about to burn down the Slytherin banners, and such a loss—"

"Would make you _cwry_ like a _wittle_ _girl_," muttered Harry under his breath.

"_What was that?_"

"Yes, _Pro_-fessor. I'll go assist them, _sir._"

Snape would then exit after the first portion of the class ended — typically muttering prayers that Harry "would be able to _ac_-tually instruct the _youths_ so as to _not_ hex their own _buttocks_ off!"— and Harry would be free to do his own lessons with the DC. The former members appreciated the defensive spell reviews and the dueling lessons. And they always made sure to fit in non-verbal spellcasting practice. By the middle of December, many of the students seemed to be very adept at casting basic spells without any sound.

The participants of the DC would certainly admit that Harry was a very good teacher. Certainly, the members of the DA already knew that from last year; now, Harry's aptitude for instruction seemed to make him even more. . . .

(_Fanciabler?_)

(_Hermione'd kill you if she knew you were butchering proper English, Potter._)

At the very least, Harry felt a new sense of community, of camaraderie, developing among the students that attended the club. That even extended to the small, but no less meaningful, number of Slytherins that would show up to each session, waving at Harry as they left the Great Hall.

* * *

Finally, the day before Slughorn's Christmas party arrived, and Harry still hadn't found a date. After heeding Hermione's warnings about fifth-year Gryffindor girls bearing edible gifts, Romilda Vane had popped up quite surprisingly, with a boxful of chocolate cauldrons containing firewhiskey.

"Wicked!" Ron exclaimed when Harry offered him one. Hermione slapped his hand away.

"Did _either _of you not hear me warning Harry about eating _anything_ that Romilda Vane or her friends offered? Love Potions? Ring _any_ bells?"

"Okay, okay. You win," Ron said, and backed down from consumption of the suspect treats.

"I just don't want to see you running after some tarty fifth-year girl under the influence of some crazy Potion that we don't have an antidote ready for." Hermione's tone was even and controlled. After that, Ron sat next to Hermione on the couches for the rest of the night, his arms squarely around her shoulders.

Harry found that the common room setting was growing more and more uncomfortable. Dean and Ginny were a constant presence and watching the two of them together caused very unpleasant sensations to course through his stomach. Mumbling a quick excuse to Hermione and Ron, Harry made his way out through the Fat Lady's portrait.

Walking around the castle, Harry ruminated over the term in relative quiet. He thought about this past summer vacation, and how his time had been occupied with Ron and Hermione, discovering the attractiveness of Ginny Weasley, and learning to better understand the Slytherin perspective from Daphne Greengrass.

Then, of course, that had all been sidetracked as he discovered Malfoy the Ferret acting rather squirrelly and suspicious. However, Harry marveled at his newfound realization that Slytherin, indeed, was as complex a house as Gryffindor.

Through Daphne, Harry had learned that not all Slytherins were 'Dark-Mark-seeking' idiots. Slytherin House was full of students who chose _not_ to fight on either side, while, at the same time, there were Slytherins who were willing to speak up to support Harry. Just as there were students in Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and even Gryffindor who fell into those categories as well.

And if _that_ was all true, then surely the same pure-blood prejudices that many Slytherins felt might also exist in the other houses as well--

"Dammit, Corner! I don't want to get caught . . ."

"I told you," Harry could hear a deep male voice respond to the _very_ familiar-sounding girl's voice, "call . . . me . . . Michael." He could also hear something that sounded very much like kissing in between each word.

Harry ducked behind the nearest tapestry and peeked out from behind the thick fabric. He could see Daphne and Michael Corner sneaking out from an empty classroom, with Daphne trying to reattach her robes over her very disheveled uniform. Michael was turning her around and around in circles as she fiddled with her robe, distracting her most thoroughly. Harry averted his eyes from the sight of the two teens snogging each other senseless.

"And now," Daphne said, smoothing down her hair, "I need to get back to Slytherin. _You_ need to head straightaway to the Ravenclaw common room. Unless you fancy listening to Slughorn go on and on about _what_ goes _where_ during sexual intercourse."

Harry knew, just by looking at Michael's disgusted face, that he had a similar expression as well. He watched as Michael and Daphne, after one last kiss, went their separate ways. Once he determined the coast was clear, Harry stepped out from behind the tapestry.

(_Well, it really wouldn't do to ask Daphne to the party tomorrow, then, would it?_)

(_Probably not the best plan of action after seeing her with Michael Corner._)

Harry had just turned around, when he walked right into a petite, blonde-headed Ravenclaw girl.

"Looking for Nargles, Harry? They tend to avoid rough fabrics like tapestries. They probably won't be happy with the lack of mistletoe around the castle."

"Luna!" Harry exclaimed. "S-Sorry. I didn't see you there."

"It's all right, of course," Luna Lovegood said in her dreamy voice, "I hope that Hogwarts can handle an infestation of the fully-developed adult Nargle; they can be as temperamental as the typical Lion-Roach."

"Yeah, I hope so . . . er, what?"

"A Lion-Roach, Harry. They are indigenous to hotter climates, and they're the only insects that have fur. They are quite fascinating, but they do tend to get angry if you try to shave them—"

"Luna, would you like to go to Slughorn's party with me tomorrow night?" Harry blurted the words out as fast as he could. Perhaps he wanted to cut Luna off from any further explanation of a Lion-Roach, or maybe it was because the quickly-approaching deadline to find a date to the party was nigh, but he figured he'd be taking either Luna or Daphne as a friend, and Daphne was currently preoccupied.

"Really, Harry? You want to go with me?"

"Sure, but just as _friends_." Harry made sure to emphasize the last words. He saw Luna beam.

"I would like that, so, yes Harry."

"Er, okay, then. I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall. Um, maybe around eight o'clock?"

Luna nodded. "Is there anything I should wear in particular, Harry? Maybe my anti-sanguination robes with Extract of Garlic?"

Harry frowned. "Come again?"

"For vampires. I heard Slughorn has invited a couple of most famous British vampires still living to his party. Oh! Perhaps it's Rufus Scrimgeour!"

"I don't — wait, what?"

"Scrimgeour, Harry." Luna said airily. "According to my father, he's the head of the most notorious vampire nest in all of England. Pity he wasn't able to get that article published—"

"Well, your, erm, _cloak_ might not really be necessary, Luna. If, er, Slughorn invited vampires, they'll probably not be trying to suck any of the students' blood."

"Oh, of course, Harry. You're perfectly right." Luna once again smiled at Harry in a spacey sort of way. "Eight o'clock downstairs tomorrow." Luna nodded and drifted away, leaving Harry to wonder exactly how attending a party with Luna Lovegood would go.

* * *

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, and very nearly tripped over the trick stair step, as Ron continued to tease him about his choice of date to Slughorn's Christmas party.

"Okay, so, exactly _when_ did you ask Loony to the party? Was it before or after she discussed the Crumple-Horned Snorkack?" Ron snorted. It was fifteen minutes until eight, and they were making their way toward the Entrance Hall so Harry could meet up with Luna.

"She _never_ brought up the Snorkack, Ron." Harry explained tiredly. This was, approximately, the twentieth time he had had the discussion with Ron, although he was certain Ron had no problem remembering the actual details from the first time Harry explained it to him and Hermione. "I asked her after she mentioned something about Lion-Roaches . . . oh, _shut it_, Weasley!" Harry finally got fed up once he saw Ron sniggering into the sleeve of his cloak.

"Ron, stop teasing him," Hermione said as she smacked Ron squarely in the chest. "Luna's a lovely person, and you'll have a good time with her, Harry." Harry silently thanked Hermione's change of heart about Luna Lovegood, as the girl had fought with them last year ("Well, she's just different, isn't she? But even if I don't agree with her more creative beliefs, it doesn't mean she's bad at all," Hermione had said about Luna when Harry mentioned she was his date to the party). Hermione had a hold of Ron's right arm and looked positively radiant in her new set of dress robes in a lovely aquamarine. Ron wore the new dress robes Fred and George had got for him only a year ago; this was the first time he had had the opportunity to wear them. When he and Harry had made their way down to the Gryffindor common room, Ron practically fell over as Hermione jumped into his arms and kissed him firmly and enthusiastically on the lips, telling him how handsome he looked. Harry had to shield his eyes from the public display of affection, although he chuckled at the pair all the same.

The trio made it to the Entrance Hall, where they quickly spotted Luna standing directly in front of the Great Hall's doors. Her silvery, sparkly robes were causing quite a stir (although Harry wasn't sure if it was the _good_ kind of stir), and the quartet made their way to Slughorn's office.

"Luna, you look, um, really nice," Harry offered. Luna merely smiled and nodded serenely.

"I did decide against the vampire-proof robes, Harry. I hope that's all right?"

"What, exactly, makes a robe 'vampire-proof', Loo- . . . er, Luna?" asked Ron.

"Merely some Extract of Garlic, Ronald," answered Luna in a faraway voice, "Harry assured me that any vampires at the party tonight would be on their best behavior. So if Minister Scrimgeour were to show up, we shouldn't worry about him trying to bite us."

Luna walked ahead of them, clearly in her own Luna-Land. Harry looked over at Ron, nudging him sharply with his elbow as he stood gaping at Harry's date like a fish.

Slughorn's office was huge, larger than a normal teacher's office would be. Even with the crowd of people inside, it was still quite big. Loud, mandolin-accompanied singing floated from the corners of the hall, and Harry watched as teeter-tottering trays of food floated around the room, as if of their own accord.

"_House-elves_?" Harry heard Hermione whisper in a huffy tone to Ron. "It's just awful!"

"Hermione, there's nothing you can do about it now, okay. Try to enjoy the party and when you graduate, work on changing the world then." Ron pulled her to him in a small embrace.

"They seem to be doing well," piped up Luna to Harry.

Harry nodded. "Ron and Hermione are working things out with this new relationship. It's actually kinda fun watching them stumble through it all."

"A hard-fought-for task is a task worth fighting for." Luna said.

Harry could only nod at her wise observation.

A firm slap on his back nearly sent Harry to the floor.

"Harry Potter!" Slughorn exclaimed. "Oh, I am _so_ happy that you were able to make it! I've told _everyone _about your deft hand at Potions. Ah, Harry . . . my dear boy," Slughorn said between back-pats, "you're so like your mother. Dear, precocious Lily Evans. She was so talented in my class, so willing to push the boundaries of the Potions curriculum." Slughorn shook his head, lost in the memory. "She was cheeky. Absolutely brilliant . . . and _fearless_, Harry. Never have I known such a spark of a girl." He returned his gaze back to Harry; the boy noticed the excess moisture building up in the Potions professor's eyes.

Slughorn brought Harry around to introduce him to a number of guests, including Eldred Worple and Sanguini. Harry noted the rather hungry look in Sanguini's beady black eyes as they bored into Luna, and he gestured to Ron and Hermione to join them.

"Why, Miss Granger! So happy for you to join us. And . . . hello!" Slughorn addressed Ron. "You must be here as Miss Granger's guest. Professor Horace Slughorn. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Harry noted with alarm Ron's ever-reddening face and eyes that flared with anger; Ron Weasley was about to lose his cool with a Hogwarts professor.

"Professor Slughorn," Hermione spoke up quickly, "this is Ron Weasley. His father works at the Ministry — Arthur Weasley, formerly of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, currently the Head of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. Arthur and Molly Weasley are friends of Professor Dumbledore, and Ron is Keeper for Gryffindor's Quidditch team _and_ the Gryffindor sixth-year prefect."

Harry couldn't help but be impressed.

(_Damn! All that in one breath!_)

"Ah. And, I see, the object of Miss Granger's affections." Slughorn gave a small wink to Hermione, who winced through her plastered-on smile. "You do look familiar, my boy," Slughorn said while squinting at Ron.

"I'm in your Potion's class." Ron's angry sarcasm was completely lost on Slughorn, whose face lit up.

"Oh, of course! You sit next to Harry. You and he get along well, then?"

Harry smacked a still-sullen Ron on the back. "He's my absolute best friend! We're like family, Professor. The Weasleys took me in, and, to this day, there's not a single place I would rather be than the Burrow, the Weasleys' home. In my opinion, they are the greatest wizarding family I've ever met. So, I guess you could say, Ron's the brother I never had!" Harry smiled as Slughorn's face broke into a wide grin.

"Laying it on a bit think, aren't'cha Potter?" Ron leaned in, whispering to Harry out of the side of his mouth.

"Shut up, you pillock!" Harry whispered right back.

After that, Slughorn couldn't get enough of Ron and Hermione. Which was absolutely fortunate for Harry, as he had just witnessed Draco Malfoy being dragged out of Slughorn's office — practically by the scruff of his neck — by none other than Professor Severus Snape.

* * *

"So, you _heard_, actually _heard _Professor Snape tell Malfoy that he would help him?" Daphne whispered as her and Harry waited for Ron and Hermione to say their goodbyes. Harry, Daphne, Ron and Ginny would be making their way to the Burrow directly from Hogwarts via the Floo System from McGonagall's office. Harry huffed out an annoyed breath and fiercely pushed his glasses back up his nose; he winced as the nosepieces scraped against his skin.

"For the _hundredth_ bloody time, Snape said he would help Malfoy, Snape had taken the Unbreakable Vow to protect him, and that Malfoy has another master that is most definitely _not _Snape!"

"But did Malfoy admit to _anything_ about the Hogsmeade visit? Anything about that necklace? I mean, we're just assuming that it was the 'Black Dawn' necklace, but that doesn't necessarily mean--"

"Why wouldn't it mean that it _wasn't_ the necklace? Daphne, Malfoy all but admitted he was involved with that, and it's got to be part of a bigger plan that he has in the works!"

"Right, no . . . I know." Daphne scratched at her elbow and averted her eyes.

"Daphne? Is something wrong?"

"Harry, why does Malfoy _have _to be up to some malfeasance? Why does he have to be bad for you, huh? Is it because he's in Slytherin? Tell me and be honest with me, please."

Harry was shocked, and a bit taken aback by Daphne's sudden outburst.

(_She's deciding _now_ to defend Malfoy?_)

"It's more than just him being in Slytherin, Daphne. It's because Malfoy's a total _dick_! There's never anything good if he's involved in it."

"But, it's one thing to go from calling Hermione a 'Mudblood' to attempting murder of another student—"

"Or _students_, Daphne. Don't forget, we've still got the 'Raspy's Bane' to consider."

"And that could be _anything_! It could be ointment or salve or other liquid that's completely harmless—"

"That he got at _Borgin and Burkes_? Seriously, Daphne, what's your problem?"

"I'm just trying to figure out this blasted Malfoy-fixation that you have, and I just want to make sure it's not because of his House—"

"No, it's because of a million reasons other than the fact he's in Slytherin." Harry was almost at his wits' end with having to justify his suspicions of Malfoy. "Why are you defending him now, Daphne?"

"I'm _not_ defending the arse, Harry. It's just that, if you're suspicious of Malfoy simply because he's a Slytherin, or if the fact he's a Slytherin plays even a fraction into your suspicions, then how are you even here, talking to me?" Daphne looked at Harry earnestly. "How could you ever consider me a friend?"

Harry suddenly understood Daphne's sensitivity with his continual search for anything on Malfoy. He shook his head, quite vigorously. "Daphne, it's not about him being in Slytherin—"

"So, all things being equal, would you go after him he was in Hufflepuff? What if he was in Gryffindor?"

Harry opened his mouth . . . and promptly shut it. Would he ever have had this antagonism with Malfoy if the idiot hadn't been sorted into Slytherin? Sure, Malfoy had been a right tosser in Madam Malkin's before Harry had ever known about houses or Slytherins being the worse sort of witches or wizards.

But would Harry have had these suspicions if Malfoy had been sorted elsewhere?

If Malfoy had been a Gryffindor, would Harry have given him a chance?

"I thought not."

Harry looked back up. Daphne's expression was unreadable.

"Hey, Daphne—"

She shook her head, and picked up her trunk. Daphne gestured toward where Ron and Hermione had finally broken apart from each other and were waving at them.

"They're waiting for us, Harry." Daphne's voice was mild and flat. Harry felt a surge of guilt coursing through him, churning his guts.

(_Way to start the holiday, Potter._)

* * *

Ron and Ginny kept asking Daphne what was wrong all throughout the first day after they arrived back at the Burrow. Daphne snapped back that, "Nothing's wrong Ron! And I'll thank you very much to leave me alone!" before storming off to the attic to just get the hell away from people.

She didn't care if the Burrow's attic housed a very loud ghoul that could annoy and entertain the Weasleys simultaneously. She just needed to be away from the youngest Weasley siblings' constant questioning and Harry's guilt-ridden and apologetic face.

She needed to sit and stew in her own anger for a while.

Daphne had just made it up to the final step of the attic, when she heard a soft noise.

(_Dammit! There goes my hope for a quiet spot in which I could meditate over the many things about the trio that _piss_ me off--_)

Daphne looked for the source of the sound, which she recognized as muffled sobs from a female. Looking toward the back of the attic, she saw a hunched figure shrouded by the light. It was a girl, her head practically between her knees, hands covering her eyes, shaking violently with each sob. Daphne took one look at her hair and said . . .

"Um, Fleur? Er—"

Daphne knew she should do something, like pat her back or say something soothing. But when actually confronted with a situation requiring some sort of physical contact to assuage an emotional individual, Daphne would clam up and let someone else deal with it.

With the number of times Daphne had witnessed Pansy Parkinson cry over Malfoy and had done nothing to help her out, it was probably one of the (_many_) reasons Parkinson hated her guts.

Daphne instantly regretted saying or uttering anything, because Fleur looked up, still sobbing. Her ivory skin was streaked with red and her blue eyes were filled with tears that hadn't yet spilled out. She delicately swatted away at her moist cheeks.

" 'Allo Dag'ne," Fleur said in a strangled-sounding voice. It was such a pathetic sound, and it seemed to trigger some sort of determination in Daphne to just try talking to the French—

(_Cow!_)

—girl.

"Um, hey, if you don't want to talk or if you don't want me to be here, I can go—"

"_Non_ . . . please stay, Daf-Daphne, I-I would like eet if you would stay here wiz' me."

"Er, all right then."

(_Bloody Salazar's hairy buttocks, I barely know her! What the hell am I supposed to say?_)

_(Greengrass, you saw all those Muggle therapists when you lived with Miss Proctor; what would they do?_)

"So," Daphne started, sitting down next to Fleur, "er . . . you can talk about whatever."

Fleur sniffed a few times and wiped at her cheeks. "You are so lucky, Daphne. I am jealous of you, you know?" Fleur was staring at the wall.

"Why in the world would you be jealous of me?"

"Because, you are wanted here, Daphne. I am not."

"Fleur," Daphne said, her brow confused and troubled, "you _are _here, though. I haven't heard anyone kick you out."

"Beel's mother 'ates me." And, with that, Fleur started crying again, in earnest. Daphne cringed.

"I-I'm sure that's not true," was all Daphne managed to say. Even though she would bet all of her Galleons that Mrs. Weasley wasn't too fond of the French girl. Daphne never missed those looks that Ron's mum threw at Fleur.

"She does! She does not even try to 'ide eet anymore." Fleur sniffed. "And Ginny does not like me at all. You cannot deny _zat_!" Fleur looked at her with the most pathetic expression.

"Well, maybe you and Ginny are just two different girls . . . y'know . . .with different interests, s'all. . . . Maybe you two don't really relate to each other. Maybe there's something that the two of you have in common—"

"I know she calls me Phlegm. I know you and 'ermione Granger call me that too."

Daphne cringed at Fleur's revelation. "Oh! Erm, sorry. . . ."

Fleur shrugged, the stream of tears starting to lessen. "Eet is not like I 'ave not done worse to others. I 'ave been 'aughty and snobbish to many, many people. Including young Ron—"

"Ron!" Daphne snapped her fingers. "Ron likes you. . . . "

"'E likes me because I am 'alf-Veela." Fleur shook her head. "Zat eez why I am jealous of you, Daphne. They like you and they accept you, no matter what you look like or," Fleur waved her hand, "or anytheeng."

"Er, thanks . . . I think." Daphne wasn't sure whether to be pleased to hear that the Weasleys actually liked her or slightly offended by the way Fleur said it.

"Molly 'as even made for you the traditional Weasley gift." Fleur continued, staring ahead. "I will not tell you what eet eez, but I am sure you will like eet."

"_Oh . . ._ um, okay."

"Does eet feel good, Daphne, to be accepted as one of zem?" Fleur turned to her to make eye contact. Daphne was at a complete loss at what to say.

(_Oh, if only you'd heard my earlier conversation with Harry . . ._)

"Well . . . um. . . it took me a while, Fleur. I'm not even sure if they totally trust me yet, to be honest. But it's just takes time, I s'pose. They've got to get to know you and, maybe it's just that they don't think you're good enough for Bill—"

That just caused Fleur to wail even louder.

"No, no, no! Bloody Salazar, don't cry _more_!" Daphne held up her arms, waving her hands in frustration. She had no idea what to do. Fleur was not a friend; she was barely an acquaintance, and somehow, the powers that be had found it fitting (_and perhaps amusing!_) that she pour her heart out to a girl who hated dealing with loud and rather _wet_ shows of emotion from others.

"But I love Beel! I love 'im with all of my 'eart! Do they not see zat?" Fleur asked desperately. Daphne was sure it was a rhetorical question.

"Maybe, er, it just takes a little time," Daphne said again. She smiled awkwardly at Fleur, and, shakily, put a hand on the top part of the half-Veela's back, sort of alternating between light pats and small semi-circles.

After a few moments, Fleur took a couple of deep breaths. "Thank you, Daphne. You listened to me pouring my 'eart out! It iz nice to 'ave somebody to talk to. I cannot talk to Beel because eet iz 'iz family. My own family iz too far away to 'ave a good conver-zation about zis."

Fleur stopped talking. Daphne continued to smile at her.

And suddenly, without warning, Fleur flung herself at the Slytherin girl, giving her a huge, enthusiastic hug.

Daphne just sat there, arms frozen, poking out from under Fleur's arms that had her firmly around the neck. Her face mostly registered her own confusion, as well as her discomfort with the _very_ physical contact.

"I weel not forget zis, Daphne! Anytime you need to talk, you must come and find me." Fleur pulled away from Daphne, dabbed at her eyes, and patted the Slytherin girl's cheek. Then, she stood up and walked in a hunched fashion to the attic door; she opened it and headed back to the house proper.

Daphne could only sit, still frozen, completely and utterly at a loss for what had just happened.

* * *

After that first day at the Burrow, a sort of peaceful interlude settled in among the Weasleys and the two guests staying with them. Ron and Harry both observed, with an amused curiosity, Fleur Delacour smiling and looking among the Burrow's current occupants with something of a hopeful, but nonetheless happy, expression. She now chatted constantly, and she always seemed to have something positive to say about the current topics being discussed. Her eyes would always travel back to Daphne, and the French girl would merely nod, wink and grin even wider. Daphne, for her part, addressed her by her first name always and would return the grin. Anytime Fleur was in charge of serving dinner, Fleur made sure that Daphne received a huge portion — something about which Ron soundly complained.

"But she's got enough on her plate to feed Hagrid!" Ron said, gesturing to Daphne's massive helpings.

"Daphne iz a growing girl," Fleur would only say mildly. Daphne looked over at Ron and stuck her tongue out at him.

Later on, in their rooms, Ginny Weasley complained loudly about her brother's fiancée. "Phlegm's being utterly _unbearable_! What's gotten into her?"

"She knows you call her that, Ginny." Daphne was thumbing through an old issue of _Witch Weekly_, looking at some of the colorful pictures of food, smells wafting from the images if you tapped your wand to them and said "_Olfactis_". She had barely realized what she even said, when she looked up and saw Ron, Harry, and Ginny all staring at her. Ginny, in particular, seemed thrown for a loop.

"I-I never say it around her though—"

Daphne shut the magazine and looked at the Weasleys' youngest. "Well, she still knows, and she was crying one day because she knows you and your mum don't like her." Ginny's face was set in a stubborn, yet troubled expression.

"Well, she's . . . she's—I mean, Phlegm-er, Fleur's just . . . _different_, is all," Ginny was at a complete loss about what to say.

"Aw, see? I knew she wasn't all bad," Ron said, gesturing at the door, presumably because Fleur was downstairs helping Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen. "Fleur means well."

"And she also thinks that you just like her because she's half-Veela," Daphne continued, addressing Ron.

"No, of course not! She's been cool with me once she got here this summer."

"Right, but would you have been so concerned about her if she didn't have any Veela in her?" Daphne sat back, watching Ron as he mumbled and shrugged.

Daphne sighed, "Fleur's probably feeling out of place here. She's not sure if anyone in the family, other than 'Beel' (_Oh, shut up! I couldn't resist!_) likes her, and she's honestly upset about it." Daphne looked around the room. Ginny looked positively sheepish and Ron had his nose crinkled up on his face. Harry sat, continuing to look at Daphne.

"Hey, Daphne," Harry said, "I'm really sorry myself, about the other day. Talking with you about the Malfoy stuff," Harry said, his voice humbled, "I honestly couldn't tell you if he were in another house would I be just as interested in his activities." Harry nodded at her. "That's something I should work on, also — checking all those stupid prejudices about Slytherin whenever they pop up."

Daphne simply looked at him, a small smile growing on her face. She blinked and bobbed her head once toward Harry. "Well, that makes this a Happy Christmas, indeed."

* * *

"_OI!_ GREENGRASS! RISE AND SHINE!"

"Huh?! Whazzat?" Daphne popped her head up. Her black hair flopped messily all over her face; she had a huge clump of it teased up on the back of her head. That's when she felt her bed moving up and down, and saw Ron Weasley, thrusting a soft-looking parcel right into her face.

"Oi! Happy Christmas, you lazy-arse!" Ron said cheerfully and bopped her on the head with the gift. Daphne rubbed at her eyes, and looked around. Ginny and Harry were standing at the end of the bed, arms crossed identically, grinning at her very mysteriously. They were both wearing rather knobbily-knitted, large jumpers; Harry's was in green (_God, his eyes just pop out, don't they?_) and Ginny's was in a dark blue.

Ron was wearing his own in maroon, and Daphne could see an 'R' on the front of his.

"Wha's this?" Daphne took the package and held it cautiously.

Ron rolled his eyes, continuing to smile. "Well, open it, if you want to know!"

Daphne pulled at the small twine holding the wrapping paper together.

"Think she'll like it?" Daphne could hear Ginny Weasley whisper to Harry.

"Think so," was Harry's response. Daphne looked at them with a creased brow.

Removing the crinkled paper, Daphne held up and looked at her new gift. It was a rather knobby-looking jumper that had obviously been hand-knitted, just as Harry's, Ginny's and Ron's were. Daphne's jumper was in green, similar to Harry's. In the middle was a large 'D' in a silvery yarn that sparkled as the light hit it just right.

"Well, it looks like you've been unofficially adopted by the Weasleys!" said Ron. Daphne looked up at Harry, who had a huge smile on his face.

"Get used to it, Daffy! You'll be getting one of these every year now. And Ron's mum'll just try to feed you more so the jumper will actually fit. . . . er, Daphne? You okay?"

Daphne was quite clearly _not_ okay. The others' faces fell and Daphne quickly got up out of bed.

(_Bathroom now! Must go to bathroom . . ._)

"Er, I'll just be a sec . . . got something in my eye," was all Daphne could manage to say. Her own voice sounded thick and throaty, and she breathed out in a relieved huff when she saw the family's bathroom was, indeed empty.

She shut the door, and let herself have a good cry, her hand over her mouth muffling her gasps for air and tears of confusion and happiness all streaming down her face. She even managed a strangled-sounding laugh as she heard Ron's, Ginny's and Harry's voices over their loud knocks, making sure everything was, indeed, all right.

* * *

**A/N: **The song Daphne sang to Ron and Hermione is John Lennon's "Happy X-mas (War Is Over)", which stella8h8chang totally suggested--and I loved the idea so much, that I had to use it.

Please check out my outtake, "Our Bodies Are Magic!" set between chapters 19 and 20.

Let me know what you think in a review. Thanks so much!


	21. Chapter 20: After the Holidays

**A/N: **Warning for excessive British music references. I own nothing, except my Ron Weasley talking doll. It's great to have to de-stressify me after a long day with dealing with people ;0)

Thanks to my beta, the ever-awesome stella8h8chang. If you are looking for good stories focused on Dumbledore, click on her link in my profile. She's a brilliant Dumbledore writer! She also runs a fantabulous Dumbledore/Grindelwald archive, HMS The Greater Good.

Rated T for language. I own nothing . . .

* * *

**Chapter 20: After the Holidays**

The three teenagers had finally coaxed Daphne out of the bathroom, and before too long, she had made her way downstairs, wearing her new Weasley jumper. Ron noted with a brief nod to Harry that Daphne had walked over to his mum and, somewhat stiffly but no less meaningfully, gave her a hug. Molly looked surprised at this new display of affection from the Slytherin girl, but only said, "Why, you're welcome, my dear!" and patted Daphne on the back. Fleur smiled herself and walked over to Daphne, giving her a hug as well . . . which Daphne awkwardly returned.

"Who'd've thought that Daphne would be winning the Weasleys over so well, eh?" Ron leaned into Harry.

Harry chuckled. "Who'd've thought you'd've let her?" he said, looking back at Ron, who could only shrug.

The other exchanging of gifts took place that morning. Chocolates, candies and other Quidditch goodies abounded. In the midst of bows, wrapping paper, and hearty portions of eggnog, a very regal-looking owl arrived, with a parchment tied to its leg. Arthur Weasley cautiously unwrapped the letter, and his face registered his shock as he read through its contents.

"Arthur, what is it?" Molly asked him, her face and voice saturated with worry.

"It's a letter from Professor Horace Slughorn. He's wishing the family a Happy Christmas, and — well, isn't that nice — he's inviting you and me to his next party." Arthur smiled at Molly. "Maybe we were wrong about ol' Sluggy, Dear." With that, Arthur kissed his wife on her forehead.

Harry closed his eyes, rolling them behind his lids and Ron groaned, apparently mortified at the idea of his parents attending any school event where he might be present.

To Ron's surprise, Daphne presented his mum with an old copy of a Muggle cookbook she had managed to ask Miss Proctor for help in purchasing.

"Julia Child?" asked Mrs. Weasley.

"Well, she's a really famous Muggle chef on the telly—" started Daphne.

"Oh, Merlin! Do you mean the box with the moving pictures?" Ron's father had become very excited with the conversation. For him, Daphne handed him more cassette tapes.

"These play music too, Mr. Weasley. This has some early Beatles stuff, and this has some Eric Clapton, The Who, a little Dusty Springfield, some Van Morrison . . ."

"You mean there's more than just the Beatles?" Arthur looked like he would simply explode with excitement. "I got the 'casey-tape player' to work here too, Daphne." Arthur held up his gift from the Slytherin girl. "We simply _must_ try your 'caseys' out! What do you say, Molly?"

Molly shook her head, but smiled all the same. "Honestly, Arthur. Well, it _is _Christmas . . ."

Hermione's gifts remained under the tree; she would be arriving the day after Christmas, bearing her own presents for her second favorite family in the whole world. Ron and Harry gave Daphne a bag of chocolate frogs and a book of jinxes and hexes. Daphne gave Ron a league-official Quaffle with the Chudley Cannons logo on it ("_Blimey_! This is _awesome, _D'!" Ron exclaimed. "I got it in the discount bin at Quality Quidditch Supplies. Think he'll notice?" Daphne whispered to Harry. "Shut up and he won't," came Harry's reply, whispered out of the side of his mouth.)

For Harry, Daphne gave him a seemingly ordinary Muggle turtleneck jumper in black. The twins, Harry noticed, were trying desperately to contain their laughter.

Which, of course, made Harry instantly suspicious.

"Right, you lot! I'll not be trying anything on that'll make me change shapes, colors, sizes . . ."

"Oh, Harry! So doubting. Just put it on, you twit! It won't bite," came Daphne's sharp reply.

Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Um, isn't that sort of the point of a Weasley Wheeze?"

"Boy, _are_ you a Gryffindor or _not_?"

Harry gave her a defiant look and grinned with determination. In a series of quick moves, Harry managed to pull the jumper on as he took the other shirt off ("Whoo-hoo! Shake it, Potter," the twins and Ron catcalled to a blushing and glaring Harry. "Boys! Stop that this instant," Molly fumed.) To his immense relief, Harry noticed nothing happening once he got the shirt on.

"Wait one minute . . ." Daphne said, walking around Harry. "Perfect!" She grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around to face the gleeful house.

"Boo! Boo!"

"That's all wrong!"

"Burn it!"

Harry heard the shouting from behind him, but it was interspersed with guffaws and laughter and Arthur Weasley, slapping his knees mirthfully.

Harry found a mirror and saw a huge version of a green and silver serpentine crest emblazoned on the back on his jumper, and the phrase "I **_heart_** Slytherin!" in sparkles that flashed gaudily in Slytherin House's colors. Snakes slithered around its edge while coughing and hacking up flowers and more hearts.

Harry spent the rest of the morning pelting Daphne with pillows and cushions, much to everyone's — as well as his own — amusement.

Fred and George took it upon themselves to present Ron with a joint gift for him and Hermione. Turning a most violent shade of red, Ron soundly refused to open the present in front of his family.

"Oh, go on, Ronnie," said Fred, ruffling Ron's shaggy hair (which had become even shaggier over the term, much to Molly's chagrin). "The knowledge we impart on you here is _vital_ to curb your potentially deviant behavior." Fred winked at him.

"_For the last time_," said Ron, through dangerously gritted teeth, "Hermione and I fell asleep together! Nothing happened—"

"Ah, the Ickle One doth protest too much," George interrupted, wriggling his finger at his brother.

"Ron-nie-kins," sang out Fred in a low voice, "we just don't want you or precious Hermione to end up as the subject for the latest Afternoon Special Show on the WWN, 'There's Nothing Magical about Teen Pregnancy'." Fred swept his hand across the air in a very dramatic fashion. "We're really doing this for you, our dearest, youngest brother."

Ron groaned into his hand.

"Fred! George! Stop harassing Ron. He's learned his lesson, and I am certain that he will exercise better judgment in the future in regards to how he handles his relationship with Hermione."

"There's _got_ to be something else we can discuss that's _not_ me and Hermione—"

"Ah! Fred and I could talk about our crazy, swinging bachelor ways—"

"Well, go on then! We've got _one_ _second_! That should be _plenty_ of time."

The room went absolutely still. Ron looked over at the direction the voice came from. Daphne was smiling quite smugly, faltering only slightly when she saw the shocked reactions from everyone's face.

"Er . . ."

"Oh, no! I agree." Ron turned back to face Fred and George, who looked like they had just been smacked upside the head with a Bludger and a Quaffle. "We want to hear all about your_ exploit_!'

Fred and George merely turned and looked at each other. "I'm not sure whether to be impressed or cry, George," Fred spoke up first. "Daphne's teaching Ronniekins the fine art of a good comeback!"

"Gits!" Ron said, smirking.

Later on, upstairs, Ron and Harry cautiously opened Fred and George's present; despite Ron's justifiable hesitation downstairs, the boys were immensely curious as to what this packaged entailed.

Getting the brown wrapping paper off, Ron gawped at the printed label on the box, while Harry fell to the floor, clutching his guts and laughing so hard, he bumped his head several times into Ron's desk without even noticing.

"And I thought Kreacher's maggots was bad enough . . ." Harry managed to gasp out.

"Virgil Insontis' VirtuChaste Knickers for _Him_ _and_ _Her_? 'Keep her innocence under lock and key and keep his enthusiasm in check as you charm these skivvies to -- oh damn! I can't read anymore of that shite!" Ron threw the box to the floor and flopped face-first onto his bed.

* * *

Hermione arrived at the Burrow on time and without incident. Ron ran over, hugging her enthusiastically by lifting her off the ground and twirling her in circles until they both got dizzy.

Ron gave her his present — a delicate-looking gold chain necklace that contained a single charm, a golden, winged shoe. The tiny white wings fluttered gently against her hand as she held it up to get a better look.

"It's the symbol for the Greek god, Hermes, which is where your name comes from," Ron began in a low voice. "Fred and George helped me find a Diagon Alley jewelry store, and they found this necklace. The bloke who runs the place says that Hermes was the Messenger of the Gods, providing the gods with all the information that they needed, which is pretty appropriate, since Harry and I would fail everything if you didn't give us important info—"

Ron had no other opportunity to talk, as Hermione threw her arms around him and kissed him firmly on the lips.

"Well, I s'pose that's a good sign," Daphne deadpanned to a very agreeable Harry. Hermione had given Daphne a book filled with Muggle comfort food recipes and Harry a Defensive spells book. For Ron, she saved the best for last.

"_Hermione_!" Ron exclaimed breathlessly, "these are _new_ Keeper gloves! They-they're too much . . ." Ron was shaking his head in utter disbelief. "I-I can't take these—"

Hermione shook her head. "I want you to have a Happy Christmas, Ron. I just wish I could've given them to you yesterday."

Harry and Daphne left the room, allowing Ron and Hermione a rare, spare moment to themselves.

Over the next few days, the Burrow was filled with laughter and music (courtesy of Mr. Weasley's new "casey-tape" player), and the Twin's constant barrage of off-color comments. Mrs. Weasley even found herself bopping along in the kitchen to the blaring sounds of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand", and "She Loves You", ("Oh, play that one again, Arthur!") and her husband came up to her several times, dancing with her as Hermione sighed, Harry chuckled, and Ron blushed in embarrassment.

"I wanted to bring my copies of 'The Dark Side of the Moon' and 'The Wall', but try explaining Pink Floyd to this lot," Daphne gestured to the very funny scene of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley enjoying each other's company.

"Too right," Harry agreed.

However, not all was fun and games, as Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour paid the Burrow a Christmas visit, towing along the estranged Weasley son, Percy. Percy was colder and more distant than ever, causing Molly to cry for several hours on Christmas Day. All Minister Scrimgeour wanted was the appearance of support for the Ministry from Harry Potter.

"So, I just told the furry-maned bastard that I'm sticking by Dumbledore, plain and simple." Harry said to the other teenagers.

"Things must not be going well for the Ministry, if they're begging for your presence." Ron said.

"Well, Dad said that much of the Minister's actions have been more for show than actually getting closer to catching You-Know-Who," Ginny offered. "They're not really able to stop the more violent werewolf attacks, and the giants are still out there . . ."

The presence of Professor Remus Lupin should have been comforting; Harry somehow managed to make things rather awkward.

First, Daphne was quite hesitant to come nearer to Lupin ("He's a bloody _werewolf_!" she exclaimed, to which Ron replied, "What's all that about overcoming your prejudices, eh?").

"Goodness, Miss Greengrass, I don't bite! Yet," Lupin winked at the teenagers. "The full moon's not for a couple of weeks." Lupin chuckled.

Harry snorted. "We're teaching Daphne a certain level of tolerance that seems to be missing from Slytherin."

"Oh, Harry, I don't know if you knew this, but a fair number of parents of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw children also asked for my termination." Lupin pointed and wriggled a finger at him. "There were a few Gryffindor families in there as well--" He stopped talking for a moment. Cocking his head toward the music playing in the background, Lupin turned to Molly Weasley. "Molly, is this . . . The Who?"

"I honestly don't know. Daphne gave Arthur some Muggle music for Christmas. The children and he seem to like it." Molly said as she chopped away at some vegetables, foot tapping to the beat of "My Generation".

Lupin turned back, smiling at Daphne. "Miss Greengrass, you've got some great taste in music!"

"_You_ like The Who, Lup-. . . er, Professor?"

"First," Lupin held up a finger, "call me Remus, or Lupin, whichever you are most comfortable with. I'm no longer a teacher at Hogwarts. Second, I adore Muggle music, especially the older stuff. This is from my generation, Daphne . . . no pun intended."

Daphne found herself giggling. "They let you listen to this music during that time?"

"Oh, _Godric_!" Lupin spoke breathlessly. "Sirius drove his mother crazy listening to Muggle bands. He just _had _to take Muggle Studies as soon as he could. The teacher back then, Professor April Trippy, was fanatical about music. She loved everything about the Muggle British bands. Plus . . . she was very beautiful, and, of course, Sirius wanted to impress her." Lupin laughed again, and his eyes glazed over with the expression that showed he was lost in a very pleasant memory.

"Sirius set forth to find every recording he could of The Beatles, The Stones, Led Zepplin, Clapton, The Who, in order to show Professor Trippy that they had _so _much in common," Lupin said and laughed and rolled his eyes. "He also found a spell to transfer the sounds from the vinyl records to our Magical Gramophones. We joked that Sirius putting on 'The Dark Side of the Moon' and 'Revolution, Number 9' on the Gramophone nonstop drove his mother, Walburga, absolutely, stark-raving _insane_!" he barked out. "It might've had some effect on Walburga. She eventually kicked Sirius out and he went to live with James and his family," Lupin explained to Daphne, who nodded with understanding.

Lupin turned back to Harry. "James, being James, loved teasing Lily by singing 'Pictures of Lily' by The Who to her." Lupin rolled his head on the back of his chair, moving it left to right, and smiling at his recollections. "It positively annoyed Lily whenever he serenaded her in the halls at Hogwarts, singing at the top of his lungs _and_ completely off-key. One time, he charmed the suits of armor in the hallway just outside of Defense Class to sing to her with his utterly awful voice. Never have I seen such a blush on her!" Lupin said, his eyes twinkling at the memories.

Harry let out a loud belly laugh.

"Who're James and Lily?" asked Daphne.

"Harry's parents, Daphne. Also, two of my closest friends," Lupin responded, still continuing to grin.

"Oh, right. I guess I forgot," Daphne said sheepishly.

Lupin shook his head. "Never a problem, Daphne. I do love reminiscing about those days, so long as you would like to keep hearing about them." Lupin gestured to Harry.

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, absolutely, Remus."

They talked for a few moments more about the Marauder days and Harry asked Lupin about his work with the Order, or whatever Lupin could actually discuss with the teens. Then, Harry made the mistake of bringing up Tonks again—

"Do you really think she was in love with Sirius, Harry?" asked Hermione. "It would explain so much, you know, about how she's been all summer long, her difficulty with her metamorphosing."

Harry shrugged, "Dunno. I mean, her Patronus looked like a great big dog . . . er, Professor?"

Lupin had jumped out of his seat, and was looking at the teens with a confused, hurried expression. "I've . . . I should be getting back." Lupin made a show of looking at his watch.

"Oh, Remus. You should sit and eat with us . . ."

"No, no, Molly," Lupin said, palms waving at her. "I've only just realized I have to be somewhere, er, soon." He turned to each of the other people at the table. "My best to you all. Mind yourselves this year." Lupin quickly winked at them and departed through the front door.

* * *

After having said their good-byes to both Molly and Fleur ("Bye-bye! Daphne. Do not forget to write!") the teenagers stumbled out of the fireplace in McGonagall's office, one after the other.

"Evening all. Potter, Professor Dumbledore asked me to give you this, and please mind the carpet." McGonagall spoke brusquely.

"Thanks." Harry nodded as he took the parchment from McGonagall. Once outside her office, he unrolled the parchment and grinned.

"Excellent. My next lesson with Dumbledore is tomorrow night. I'll fill him in on the stuff with Malfoy and Snape, and he's seen the receipt, so something's got to be done, right?"

"You've been having classes with Dumbledore?" Daphne asked. Harry, Ron and Hermione all stopped walking and looked at each other. In his excitement of returning to Hogwarts and enjoying the holiday with his friends, Harry had completely lost his head and forgotten that Daphne had no knowledge about the lessons with Dumbledore. Hermione gave him a warning look and Ron shrugged and winced at the same time. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, counted silently to three, and started speaking.

(_Godric . . . I really hope I don't regret this!_)

"Daphne, I've been having lessons with Dumbledore since the beginning of the year."

Daphne whistled. "Wow! That's _wicked_, Harry. So, is he like teaching you spells and stuff to fight Voldemort—"

"THSST!" Ron hissed. Hermione slapped his chest.

"Ron, seriously, stop that!"

"—Er, no, Daphne," Harry responded. "He's actually not teaching me spells. It's more of a . . . historical approach, I guess. I'm actually not sure what we're going to talk about tomorrow. Daphne, I just want to make clear to you, though. Dumbledore only wanted me to keep this information between myself and Ron and Hermione. If it gets out to too many people, it could be—"

"Disastrous? Dangerous?"

"Er, well—"

"Potentially hazardous to all of our healths? We'd all come down with an acute case of Death-Eater-itis?"

"Sure, yeah."

Daphne smiled. "It's okay, Harry. If there's one thing I know it's how mental our Headmaster can be about things."

"Really?" Harry didn't doubt Daphne had _some _idea about how Dumbledore's mind worked. But, as for her knowing full well how the Headmaster thought through certain circumstances . . .

(_If only she knew what Dumbledore had been thinking when he decided to help her._)

"I won't say anything," Daphne said in turn to each of them. Smiling slightly and waving her goodbye, she departed for the Slytherin common room, her trunk in tow.

Harry turned to look at his two best friends.

"I know what you're thinking, and I probably won't say anything beyond what I told her today, okay? Everything else," Harry made a swirling motion between the three of them, "stays between us."

"Harry, I hope you know what you're doing — it was a pretty big thing to include her in, you know?"

Ron gave a thoughtful nod. "But, it might be good, just to sort of let her in a bit, right? Not too much, but maybe just to show we can trust her. I mean, she's been doing what she can with the Malfoy stuff, y'know? Anytime she sticks her nose into something in her house, she could get into trouble. She needs reassurance that she's got people that do trust her."

Hermione looked at Ron. "You've really come a long way about this, Ron." She paused briefly, before talking again. "It's admirable, Ron, definitely admirable," Hermione said, smiling at him.

"C'mon," Harry beckoned, "let's go put our things away and grab something to eat."

* * *

"Apparition lessons! _Blimey_ . . . we're really of age now, aren't we?" Ron said breathlessly. He stared at the notice on the bulletin board of the Gryffindor common room. He elbowed Harry, who was staring right along with him. "At least you already know this stuff."

"Harry already knows how to apparate?" Dean Thomas asked. His arm was draped over Ginny Weasley's shoulder.

(_Stupid, possessive, artistic prat!_)

"Yeah. Harry Side-Along Apparated with Du — er, someone already. At the beginning of summer," Ginny gave Harry a heart-searing wink and smile.

(_Yeah, that's right, _DEAN_! Suck on that, _DEAN!)

(_Potter, you can get real nasty when you're jealous._)

(_Oi! Shut it!_)

"Merlin, Harry. You seem to know everything, already." Neville Longbottom piped in. Harry felt a bit uncomfortable with that observation, and could only awkwardly smile.

"Dunno nearly as much as you though in Herbology. I didn't even continue on with it." Harry conveniently left off the fact that he could've with his "E". "Really, I reckon no one knows as much about magical plants and botany as you do, Nev."

Harry smiled as Neville shrugged and grinned.

The rest of the day passed without much excitement, and before Harry realized, it was time again for his third session with Professor Dumbledore.

* * *

Harry arrived at Dumbledore's office and the first topic of conversation was the Minister's visit at the Burrow. Harry had just managed to admit to Dumbledore that Scrimgeour had thrown his loyalty to Dumbledore in his face . . . but Harry hadn't backed away from his allegiance.

Harry could only admit, proudly, that he was, and would always be, "Dumbledore's man, through and through . . ." He noted the momentary pause as the Headmaster appeared to collect himself, and Fawkes sang a simple and pure call that sounded like a glorious song.

"Sir, I don't mean keep bringing this up, but Snape and Malfoy—"

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry, and I do not wish to remind you again that he is a teacher of this school and, therefore, deserves your respect." Dumbledore's gaze grew serious and stern; Harry, however, persisted in recounting his observations from Slughorn's Christmas Party.

"Harry, regarding the incident in Hogsmeade and with Miss Katie Bell, we have taken extra precautions that can ensure that no other students will sustain such life-threatening injuries."

"Sir," said Harry, perched excitedly on his chair, "does that mean Malfoy's been caught—"

"Harry, you would do well to focus _less_ on Mr. Malfoy and redirect this intense energy to the matters at hand, namely the contents of the _two_ memories that we will be investigating today."

"But, sir . . ."

"Harry Potter!" Dumbledore spoke clearly and directly to Harry; he could not remember the last time the Headmaster had used such a tone with him. "The time has come for you to put aside personal vendettas and childhood prejudices." Harry watched as Dumbledore's body and face slowly relaxed. "It is vital, in the midst of war, that one _knows_ which battles to fight, Harry. To choose the path with the most probable chance for permanent, everlasting victory. Do you understand?" Dumbledore's voice was soft, but his expression brokered no chance for debate.

Harry felt himself nod, even though he knew he was onto something in regards to Malfoy. He wanted to keep going, and, worse, he wanted to pester, and yell, and scream at Dumbledore until the Headmaster relented and gave Harry what he wanted — Malfoy's ferrety head on a platter.

(_A bit bloodthirsty, aren't we, Potter?_)

(_Only for a little dickhead like Malfoy, the Rat-Prat . . ._)

"I do hope that we have settled matters, Harry. Even if we didn't, though, we must begin the lesson now — we have quite a bit of area to cover tonight. And I ask you to pay close attention to the second memory, in particular, for that is the most important one of all."

* * *

"Horcruxes?" Hermione breathlessly whispered. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"Really?" Harry looked at her with disbelief. "You're sure about that?"

Hemione nodded. Harry frowned. He, Hermione and Ron were sitting, once again, at a table in the farthest corner of the Gryffindor common room. The other Gryffindor students were enjoying the last couple of hours of socializing, playing magical games and listening to the WWN's Top 100 wizarding songs of 1996. Absentmindedly tapping his heels to The Weird Sisters' "All the Magic in the World", Ron pulled at his lower lip in concentration. Harry had just told him and Hermione about the two memories that he saw this evening: a memory about Morfin Gaunt telling Tom Riddle about his family, and a bizarrely altered memory involving Slughorn, Riddle, and Horcruxes. Ron looked over at Harry, now pissed off and annoyed that he was stuck with the unfortunate task of wrangling the original memory out of Slughorn—

"Why the hell would Dumbledore give me this job? How in the world could I possibly convince Slughorn to give up that memory, especially when the idiot went through all the trouble of editing it?"

"Harry why don't you _ask_ him about Horcruxes? I mean, he _loves_ you. . . . he'd do anything you wanted. I reckon ol' Sluggy would probably be your house-elf for a day if you just asked him to," Ron suggested. When Hermione huffed, Ron looked at her, a small smirk played on his mouth. "What? It's true, innit?"

"There are better ways of saying that than reinforcing archaic wizarding stereotypes, Ron," said Hermione, without looking up from her book.

Ron looked over at Harry and winked at him. "So, I guess I could say old Slughorn would make a good, obedient housewife for Harry if he asked him to." Harry bit his lip, watching Ron attempting to contain his own laughter. Hermione looked positively livid.

"Your _mum_ is a housewife, Ron! The woman _you _spend ninety-percent of your life scared of, or did you forget that?"

"Well, you've got to admit, she does a bang-up job of chores and cooking. _Exactly_ the way I like 'em . . ." Ron said dreamily, leaning back in his chair. "The world would be such a great place if my woman would have my meals and my laundry ready for me after a long day . . ."

A book slammed shut on the table. Harry and Ron snapped forward, looking the pictures of wide-eyed innocence to an irate Hermione. Her brown eyes positively sparked at Ron.

(_Damn! She is gorgeous when she's on fire . . ._)

"You'd do very well to remember, Ronald Bilius Weasley, that I know hexes and jinxes that could give you the most uncomfortable exploding blisters all along your unmentionable areas."

"See," Ron said, turning to Harry, gesturing to Hermione, "this is what happens when you let birds think for themselves!"

"_Ron!_" Hermione huffed at him, hitting him over and over on his arms while he and Harry dissolved into fits of laughter. After a few slaps, he grabbed Hermione's hands and looked her squarely in the eyes, smiling the whole while.

"I. Was. Kidding. You know that, right? I love you just the way you are, you daft cow!"

"Oh, _you _big, stinky . . ." Hermione froze mid-insult. "You '_what_' me just the way I am?"

Ron just shook his head, grinning like a complete fool. "I said I love . . . oh, bugger! _Bugger_!"

(_The fuck did you just do, you idiot?_)

(_Calm down, calm down . . . it's okay . . ._)

(_It's _OKAY? _She bloody heard you, you dumb-arse!_)

Ron looked over at Harry, eyes wide and bulging out of his head. Harry, his own eyes just as wide and shocked-looking, merely shrugged, as if he didn't know what to do.

"I — er, well, um . . . er . . ." Ron stuttered. It was so much easier when it rolled of his tongue, and he didn't think about it. Giving the feeling conscious thought made his brain work overtime. It was the type of sentiment overly-sensitive blokes said in gloopy, saccharine-sweet poetry. It was something really horny guys said to pull a bird. It was something husbands said to wives after years of companionship. . . .

They were both still in school, both just teenagers. However, they were also in the middle of a war against a maniac out to kill their best friend, and each year, the three of them seemed to be confronted by circumstances some adults would find harrowing.

If they, as teens, could fight off Death Eaters, surely whatever emotions Ron felt for Hermione could be love. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

Ron remembered that he and Hermione had started out as enemies, then friends and sparring partners. There had always been that kinetic spark of energy between him and her that he had to keep going.

Because it was in those moments that he could see her passion, even if no one else could.

Because it was in those moments that they were completely engrossed in each other.

Because it was in those moments that Hermione could be Hermione, with all the fire, passion, and brilliance that Ron . . .

(_Loves._)

(_Crap!_)

Her spark simply _ignited _him, and it was in that moment that Ron knew this feeling, even if his tongue couldn't say it, was no less real for him.

Somehow, he knew he was in love with Hermione.

"I love you." Ron could hear himself breathing. He could feel the rise and fall of his chest. "I really do love you, Hermione." He didn't care if his best friend was sitting, frozen in his chair, listening to every word, or if all eyes in the Gryffindor common room were focused solely on him and Hermione. Ron still had both of her hands in his, and he just continued to watch her face.

He knew his words had reached to her ears, the way her face, tense and concentrated in her righteous fury, suddenly stopped. All her muscles seemed to relax, and the corners of her mouth slowly moved upward, visibly responding, for the first time, to Ron's admission.

"You-you really love _me_? Ron?" Hermione could only whisper, but her eyes were filled with so much happiness as well as tears.

"I'll say it just one more time for now, okay? I, Ron Weasley, really do love _you_, Hermione Granger . . . _OOOF_!"

And, it was a good thing that was all Ron needed to say, because Hermione jumped and flung herself at him. Ron, already leaning back in the chair, toppled to the floor, underneath a mass of chestnut-brown hair, tears, and laughter.

"I love you too, Ron!" Hermione said, her voice muffled in the side of Ron's neck. Ron chuckled, spitting out strands of Hermione's hair that had gotten caught in his mouth. He looked up and over and saw Harry, shaking his head in utter disbelief.

"Nutters . . . completely nutters, Harry. OW!" And Ron flinched and grinned as Hermione swatted at his head, her arms still wrapped tightly around his neck.

* * *

"Excuse me. Are you Ivy Wellington?" Daphne Greengrass had spied the rather tall, skinny, black-haired Slytherin girl sitting in the Great Hall between meals. Ivy was apparently working on writing a letter to some unknown correspondent when Daphne approached her to talk about Harry Potter.

Daphne was slowly getting more comfortable with meeting the younger Slytherins and finding out which side they supported, if any side at all. The vast majority seemed to prefer to just stay out of battle, and the profiles she had drawn up seemed to have worked well in helping her keeping her away from Death Eaters: The Next Generation.

Some of the other Slytherins had approached her during the DC meetings, although it seemed to be mostly girls at this point. There was Willa, the prim blonde fifth-year, and her friend, Marian, who had accompanied her to the class. Daphne had managed to find one Slytherin fifth-year boy, the unfortunately-named Gregorias Capulet, a kid totally engrossed in Quidditch (but only the Tutshill Tornadoes, because, "They at least win everything!") and who just about dismissed Daphne outright because of her friendship with that "idiot who likes the Cannons." After engaging Gregorias in conversation, and finding out he actually was pretty impressed with Harry as a Seeker, Daphne silently thanked Ron and Harry for force-feeding her information about Quidditch through the summer so she could at least act like she knew what she was talking about.

Snapping her attention back to the Slytherin in her immediate sphere, Daphne watched as Ivy jumped a bit at being interrupted in mid-sentence. The girl looked up at her. "Oh, um . . . yes, actually. _Oh._" Ivy said in surprised breathlessness, "You're Daphne Greengrass, aren't you?"

"I am," although Daphne reckoned that it sounded less a statement and more a question.

"Well, I see you all the time at DC, and you're friends with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger."

Daphne nodded. "Uh, yes. Yes, I am a friend of theirs."

"And, if I'm not mistaken, you're dating Michael Corner, right?"

"Er," was all Daphne could manage. She fancied her blush gave away her answer. "You seem to have your finger on the pulse of things."

"Well, I enjoy gossip and people-watching. And considering you were the only person from our House that got tangled up with Potter's defensive class and you fought with him at the Ministry, _and_ I saw the show you and Draco Malfoy put on in the beginning of the term in September, you've been a rather interesting person to watch."

Daphne squirmed uncomfortably. "Scary how much you know and remember . . ."

"Your antics were a popular topic of conversation last year," Ivy spoke in a hushed tone. "And people were positively buzzing when you and Malfoy had it out. Then, that fight in the girls' dormitory, and Pansy Parkinson—"

"You're like a bloody shadow, you are!" Daphne breathed out. "You could be a spy or something."

Ivy shrugged. "You don't really seem to get just how much your latest adventure gets talked about, dissected, analyzed."

"Analyzed? Really?"

Ivy nodded. "There're a couple of girls that also support Potter that I talk to on a regular basis. They don't really want to say too much — their families have business interests with both Diagon and Knockturn Alley merchants."

"So why the hell would they support Harry?"

Ivy considered this. "Well, it's not so much the _families_ really, as it is the girls themselves. They keep it to themselves until we can get together and talk about things in our dormitory." The girl smiled at Daphne. "I can get you their names also. So you can talk to them if you want."

"Um, sure." Daphne didn't really know what to say to this enthusiastic, but rather omniscient girl.

"Harry and you should know it's not just you among the Slytherins that support him."

"You, er, just seem to know a lot about things."

"Like I said, I'm observant."

"Right, well, I'll just be on my way."

"Oh, and Daphne?" Ivy called back to her.

"Yeah?"

"Just for the record," Ivy said, "I want to make sure you know that I support Harry, and I think you have done well in making your own mark in Slytherin." With a nod, Ivy set back to her parchment, and Daphne realized that, once again, she had done very little talking and hadn't even needed to convince Ivy Wellington to consider Harry Potter's side in the upcoming war.

* * *

**A/N: **"Dumbledore's man, through and through," from _**Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince**_, pg. 357 (U.S. Version, 2005).

Thank you to all my reviewers and readers and alerters! Really, your attention to this story is very much appreciated. If you haven't yet, I do have my outtake from November, called "Our Bodies are Magic!" And it's about Ron's most awkward moment ever! Well . . . in the "From Hell" universe, at least ;0)


	22. Chapter 21: Discord in the Den

**A/N:** Susan Bones replaced Hannah Abbott as the Hufflepuff prefect in this story.

Also: this chapter refers back to 'The Healer' that I mentioned in Chapter 18, November. Phillip Marcus Stallsworth — the magical researcher who wrote about the theories supporting the misconceptions of Muggle-born magic. See? This is what happens when you're married to a scientist!

I own nothing. Rated T for very strong language (and _catfight!_) and thanks so very much to stella8h8chang for the betaing.

* * *

**Chapter 21: Discord in the Den**

Daphne had just climbed up the stairs to the Slytherin girls' dormitory. She was exhausted. A long day of writing essays, seeking out a classroom in which she and Michael Corner could "enjoy each other's company", and talking with other, Potter-sympathetic Slytherins had simply worn her down. She smiled smugly to herself; at least she had faith that her deal with Bulstrode was going strong as the bigger girl had managed to block Parkinson from charging toward Daphne, wand out, right after they'd all returned from the holidays.

Daphne was ready to sleep — to hell with whether it was only eight o'clock on a Saturday!

Which was probably why she threw open the door to her dormitory without taking a few moments to assess who was in the room or what was presently going on.

"Pansy, it's okay . . . Draco's just not worth it—"

"Draco's worth _everything_! You wouldn't know. You wouldn't care . . ."

There was Pansy Parkinson, sitting at the end of her bed, tears pouring down her face. Tracey Davis had her arm around her, trying desperately to soothe her with a feeble hug and shallow words.

And Millicent Bulstrode was nowhere to be found.

(_Oh damn!_)

"Oh, er . . . s-sorry. I-I'll come back . . ."

Parkinson brought her head up, looking directly at Daphne.

The first thing that struck Daphne was the stark, pure emotion in Parkinson's eyes. She had seen and heard Parkinson cry over various things before in years past — Malfoy, homesickness, Ratface, shittily-done schoolwork, Malfoy the Ratface again.

Daphne hadn't ever really been keyed into reading the emotional constitution of others back then; it was hard to feel sympathy for a person, particularly someone who had added to the comments Malfoy had made about how poor Daphne had looked, or who had made sure exaggerations about Daphne and other male Hogwarts students left the realm of rumor and innuendo and became known as fact.

She wasn't sure if it was her friendship with the trio that somehow turned on the sympathetic portion of her brain, but for the first time, Daphne looked at Pansy Parkinson and felt sad for her. The pain in the girl's eyes seemed without end.

Daphne wondered if that was what she looked like whenever she would talk about Cedric Diggory.

She then did something she never thought she would do . . .

"Pansy?" Daphne said, cautiously. "Er, Pansy, what's wr—"

Before Daphne could even get the word out, Parkinson sprang off the bed, still crying in earnest, and pulled her wand out, pointing it directly at Daphne's chest.

"What . . . the . . . _fucking hell _. . .are you doing here?" Parkinson spat at her through gritted teeth, her wand shaking in her hands.

Daphne chose not to reach for her wand. She just lifted her hands up to show the other girl she was not armed.

"I just came up here to go to sleep. I'm not looking to pick a fight with you, Pansy—"

"You _don't _get to say my name! _You're _a damn traitor is what you are." Parkinson sneered at her, tears flowing freely still. Parkinson swiped at her nose with the sleeve of her robe. "Why don't you go crawl into your precious Potty's bed and _stay_ _there_. It's where you belong, _not _among us . . . n-not . . ." Parkinson's voice faltered, as if she was losing her strength to keep going.

"Pansy?"

"_Shut up! _Don't _ever _say my name again, like we're best friends or something. You're foul, y-y'know? Running around, after Precious _Fucking_ Potty and his Mudblood and the Weasel." Parkinson was circling Daphne, her wand pointed at her, vibrating in her trembling hand.

Daphne struggled to keep her voice mild. She was starting to feel her anger rise, and when she got angry, she did things that were _not _nice . . . not nice at all. "Pansy, did Draco do something to you? Is he why you're crying—"

"The _fuck _makes you think I'll tell you anything! You'll just run off and tell Potter! You'll tell Potter anything about Slytherin. Because you don't care. _You've never cared_ about Slytherin, or any of us that're loyal to our House--"

(_She still thinks that rot?_)

(_Oh, _that's_ the last bloody straw!_)

"Because, _Pansy_, Slytherin didn't care about me! From our very first day here, Malfoy laughed at me because my stuff was shit and I had no money. _You _laughed at me too, remember? Malfoy threw his Knuts at me in our common room, led jeers and taunts at me, just like Ron—"

"_Great_ _Salazar's_ _Ghost_, you even call them by their first names!" Parkinson threw her free hand up in the air, completely disgusted by her fellow housemate. Her voice ratcheted up to levels only a dog could hear.

"Harry! Hermione! Draco and Pansy! I'll say whatever name I bloody feel like—"

"_YOU FUCKING BITCH!_" Parkinson launched herself at Daphne, the wand she had in her hand completely forgotten.

Daphne's yelp of shock mingled with Tracey Davis' own scream. Parkinson lashed out, her fingernails scratching at Daphne's face, nearly getting into her eye. Daphne brought her knee up to try to block Parkinson physically from getting closer to her. It was to no avail, as Parkinson grabbed a huge clump of Daphne's hair and pulled ferociously as Daphne pushed on Parkinson's stomach. The clump of hair ripped out of Daphne's head with a sickening sound.

"_AAAAH_!" Daphne screamed, shakily touching the spot where her hair had been. She looked at Parkinson, who still held _her _hair in her hand. Anger coursed through Daphne's veins. Arms shaking and hands balled up into fists, Daphne yelled out, "_YEEEEARRRRGH_!" as she lunged at Parkinson, punching her squarely in the cheek. Parkinson stepped back, hand touching her face. Looking at Daphne, Parkinson ran toward her and slapped her across the face.

The two girls threw each other to the hard stone floor, rolling on top of each other, smacking and slapping each other, punching and kicking at any body part that they could reach. They never heard the onslaught of running footsteps, nor did they hear Professor Snape and Professor Sinistra barreling through the door, followed by approximately ninety-percent of the girls currently in Slytherin House.

"_MISS GREENGRASS! MISS PARKINSON!_" Professor Snape shouted over the din. The two professors snapped out their wands and swirled them in circles aimed directly at the two girls. In unison, the professors shouted, "_Petrificus_ _Totalus_!"

Daphne felt herself go completely rigid, her screaming silenced along with Parkinson's. Each girl had a firm grip on their shoulders, hands practically strangling the other's neck. Their robes were ripped and torn and their knees and arms were bruised from their violent tumbling on the hard floor. Even though her brain knew they'd been Petrified, Daphne struggled desperately to break herself free from the other girl's grip and to get her hand off of Parkinson as well.

Both girls' eyes went as round as Professor Trelawney's crystal balls as they saw Professor Snape's livid face crouched down mere inches from them.

"_Utterly despicable behavior!_ For two ladies of the House of Salazar Slytherin, a house _known _for its _nobility_, you both have managed to reduce it to mere _Hufflepuffian_ standards! I have never been so _disgusted_ by two of my students. Professor Sinistra," Professor Snape turned to the other Slytherin teacher, "will you assist me in Levitating _these things_," he said as he waved his hand angrily, "to the Hospital Wing? Madam Pomfrey will need to attend their injuries."

"Absolutely, Professor Snape." Professor Sinistra's tone was short and blunt. In great, dignified steps, Professor Sinistra strode to the two girls and, along with Professor Snape, clearly enunciated "_Mobilicorpus_." The two girls floated, still intertwined with each other, into the growing crowd of Slytherin students that had parted to allow the hovering human bundle past them . . . .

* * *

Word of Daphne and Pansy Parkinson's fight took no time at all in traveling around the castle. Even though it had occurred at night, as students were crowded in their common rooms doing typical teenager activities, Head Boy Eddie Carmichael had notified the prefects in each of the houses and, of course, Ron and Hermione wasted no time in telling Harry.

Harry, Ron and Hermione ran, huffing and puffing, all the way up to the Hospital Wing. They forewent the Invisibility Cloak ("Well, we _are_ prefects after all," Hermione said indignantly). Ron and Hermione came up with a variety of different excuses as to why they'd be roaming around the castle at this hour, but settled on telling anyone who dared ask that they were going to visit Daphne Greengrass in the Hospital Wing.

Thankfully, no one stopped them, and the trio arrived at the Hospital Wing without incident.

"OW!"

"_Ooomph_! Harry, watch where you're stepping."

"I _did_, Hermione. You're the one that got in _my _way . . ."

"Guys, over there." Ron pointed toward a bed at the far end of the wing. One bed was blocked off, the occupant out of sight, but the bed Ron was gesturing towards had a pair of feet sticking from behind the screen. A tall, skinny boy with dark hair and Ravenclaw robes was standing next to the bed, hand touching the sheets laying next to the exposed legs. Harry walked toward the bed, flanked by Ron and Hermione and saw Michael Corner, his face red with anger.

"I _still_ can't believe she did this to you! I hope you got her good—" Harry heard Michael say.

"Yeh mean you 'abben't seen 'er face? Beliebe me, _Mikey_, I go' 'er real good — straigh' across 'er cheek!" Harry could hear the odd, muffled sound to Daphne's voice and thought there might be something wrong with her nose . . . and possibly her mouth.

Michael managed to chuckle. "What have I told you about calling me _Mikey_?"

"Tha' yeh absolu'ely lub id, and wish I'd pinch your cheeks like your Mummy," came the answer, in Daphne's sarcastic voice. Harry could still hear the brevity in her words, though.

(_Well, she could be in a much fouler mood._)

Harry couldn't help but laugh. Clearly, Daphne's attitude hadn't been tampered by the run-in with Parkinson.

Michael looked up. "Oh, er, hey there. I guess you're here to see Daphne?"

Ron grinned and held his hands up. "Hey, mate. We wouldn't want to disturb you or anything—"

"Is tha' Ron?" Daphne's voice came from behind the curtain.

"Actually, it's Ron, Harry _and_ Hermione," Harry said.

Michael gestured to the trio. "You've got yourself a little fan club, Daphne."

The trio peeked from around the curtain. Harry was just about to wave at her, but stopped in mid-gesture, grimacing despite himself. Harry could hear Hermione gasping behind him.

"Bloody _hell_!" Ron whispered.

Daphne was sitting up in the bed. She had bruises covering her arms and legs, making her appendages look rather leopard-like. Her face was riddled with purple bruises and three gashes crossing her forehead and left cheek. Her left eye was turning purple as well. The right side of Daphne's mouth was swelling ferociously, and Harry could see more purple bruising around the swollen area.

The worst-looking part of all her injuries was a patch of gauze covering a rather large portion of her scalp, just above the right side of her forehead. The bandages circled around her head, oddly reminiscent of a patient lying in a military bed in a war movie Harry had once seen at the Dursleys.

Ron shook his head. "Sweet Merlin's Tits!"

"Nebber looked bedder, 'uh?"

Harry could only gasp in disbelief. "She's made mincemeat out of your face, Daphne."

"Serious'y, yeh should see Par'inson," Daphne slurred. She was talking out of the non-swollen side of her mouth. She lifted her hand and thumbed in the direction of the closed-off bed. "I thin' I knocked out a doof."

Hermione frowned. "A what, Daphne?"

"_Doof_," Daphne said, with an eyeroll, pointing at her mouth, which was open, albeit a very small amount.

It was awfully swollen, after all.

"You knocked out a tooth? Are you serious?" Ron asked, grinning widely.

"A fron' one a' tha'," Daphne said with a nod. She winced and brought a hand up to the back of her neck.

"Daphne, who started it?" Hermione asked.

"Well, officially, Par'inson came a' me firs' with 'er wand ou', she an' I egged each other on, an' she came a' me and scratched my face. Then, the rough-an'-'umble started."

"'_Rough_-_and_-_tumble'_? It's like a whole bag of Filibuster Fireworks exploded all over your face!" Ron exclaimed.

Daphne snorted. "I guess I know _exactly_ how I loo' now. Won' be winnin' any beauddy condes's."

"Is Professor Snape going to punish you?"

Daphne shrugged, but it clearly hurt her to do so, as she noticeably winced in pain. "He waddn' habby wi' me, tha's fer sure."

Michael gave a small cough. "Er, well, I should let you catch them up," he said, gesturing to Harry, Ron and Hermione. Daphne managed a feeble nod ("Argh! Sono'abi'ch!" she muttered as she rubbed at her neck) as Michael turned to talk to the trio. "Hey, Malfoy's already been in here once this evening, and he tried coming over here with murder in his eyes. I called out to Pomfrey to 'check her bandages' and he slithered away. Is there anything we can do to make sure he won't be trying anything against her?"

Harry looked at Michael with a darkened brow as a swirl of conflicting emotions bubbled in his chest. Here was the ex-boyfriend of Ginny Weasley, object of Harry's affections . . . Mr. Golden-Voice, Music-Loving Butthole himself. He should hate him . . . Harry _wanted_ to hate him.

(_He bloody kissed _Ginny Weasley!_ On the lips! Probably . . . no, most _definitely_ used tongue!_)

Michael Corner had no idea that Harry was so jealous of him for dating Ginny Weasley before Harry had ever been attracted to her. And now? Michael was asking for help to protect Daphne from retaliation from the ferret.

Harry inwardly chuckled as these matters of the heart seemed to come back to him full circle.

He nodded at Michael. "We'll think of something."

Hermione stepped forward. "I can ask Madam Pomfrey if I could stay with her tonight and just use one of these hospital beds—"

"Like hell you are!" Ron interrupted. "I'm not letting you stay here so Malfoy can sneak up and curse you." He nodded at Daphne. "Both of you."

"_Let me_?" Hermione glared at him. "Since when do I ask for your permission to do _anything_? You know perfectly well that I'm a good duelist, and Malfoy's weak at casting spells—"

"He likes to trick people, Hermione. As brilliant as you are, if the rodent wants to find a way to get you, he'll get you. He's stubborn like that." Ron's hands, fisted into little balls, sat firmly on his hips. "If you stay here tonight, well, so am I."

"Ron, really—"

Ron stalled her by putting his hand over her mouth. "I'm staying." He turned to Michael while Hermione made disagreeing tuts behind Ron's fingers. "What about you?"

"Er," Michael shifted uncomfortably, "I might be getting in enough trouble, staying out this late. Ernie Macmillan caught us in a classroom yesterday past curfew, and we, sort of, have to . . . y'know." Michael blushed furiously.

"Aw, that figures!" Ron said in annoyance. "You're lucky. Snape did the session in December. You won't get him."

"Yeah, but I'll have to listen to _Flitwick_ talk about — _that_!" Michael shook his head. "The Head of my own House, talking about . . ." Michael shivered. "So I _should_ be heading back. I just came by when I heard, and wanted to make sure she was okay."

Harry couldn't help but grin a little at Michael's obvious concern for Daphne. "You and her _are_ pretty serious?"

Michael just looked back at Harry, and shrugged. "Just wanted to make sure she's okay s'all—"

"And you've done so. _All _of you now know she's _okay_," said Madam Pomfrey from behind them. "It's about time Miss Greengrass got some rest. You've all got some nice, warm beds yourself, so out!" She fluttered her hands at the group of teenagers, who were now vociferously complaining.

"But, what if Malfoy comes back up here?"

"— just trying to make sure nothing else happens!"

"Someone could hurt her—"

"Which is why I feel, Madam Pomfrey, that Miss Granger should be allowed to stay here with Miss Greengrass overnight, in one of the spare beds. I do think that would be a fine compromise." Madam Pomfrey, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Michael and Daphne ("_OW_!") turned to see Professor Albus Dumbledore, striding into the Hospital Wing toward Daphne's bed.

"Albus, with all due respect," Madam Pomfrey started indignantly, "the Hospital Wing is not a dormitory—"

"I am certainly aware of that, Poppy," Dumbledore said in a mild, amused tone. "In a circumstance such as this, where intra-house fighting occurs between two students, I would suggest that the prefects come in and check upon both individuals. However, as Miss Parkinson was not only a participant in the fight, but a Slytherin prefect as well, and seeing as how Miss Granger and Miss Greengrass are friends already, I see nothing wrong with allowing one of our most responsible students to act in Miss Parkinson's stead and stay here in the hospital room if she chooses to keep watch. I will have Miss Bones check on Miss Parkinson from time to time."

Madam Pomfrey set her mouth in a firm line, and nodded in resignation. "Fine, fine then." She turned away to prepare a bed next to Daphne for Hermione to use for that evening.

"Professor Dumbledore, thank you very much," Hermione said to the Headmaster. "I'm _fine _with staying here with Daphne," Hermione turned and gave a huffing Ron a most severe look.

"Not to fear, Mr. Weasley." Dumbledore said with a light chuckle. "I have asked one of the Aurors patrolling the grounds this evening to keep watch on the third floor, in particular."

"Wotcher, all," said a young woman with mousy brown hair and rather punky-looking clothes. She peeked around the corner of the screen and waved at the teens.

"Tonks!" Harry, Ron and Hermione exclaimed right back.

"All right then, Tonks?" Harry asked. He frowned slightly when Tonks only shrugged.

"Can't complain, I guess . . . oooh," Tonks said, sucking in a breath. She had just noticed Daphne's face. Gesturing at the girl with her head, Tonks gritted her teeth in an exaggerated wince. "Looks like that stings!" Tonks swirled her finger around her face.

"Nah, I bareby noddice id, reabby," Daphne said sarcastically.

"I've had worse, believe me — _OW_!" Tonks had just tripped on the metal frame of the screen around Daphne's bed; Ron coughed to hide his snickering. "Well, I wouldn't worry about any of it — Pomfrey will set you right!" Tonks' voice sounded bright, but with her hair remaining its mousy shade of brown and her rather expressionless face, Harry reckoned she was still upset about the events of last year, notably losing Sirius. He still firmly believed Tonks had been in love with his godfather.

"Well, I _would_ if other students would let my patients rest," Madam Pomfrey muttered under her breath. She had just snapped a clean bed sheet tight, folding the edges of the corners with military precision. Harry heard a small chuckle from behind him, and he saw Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling in the low light of the Hospital Wing.

"Miss Greengrass, I merely wanted to check upon your condition. Professors Snape and Sinistra gave to me their accounts of the altercation. I know," Dumbledore stared at Daphne over the top of his spectacles, "that you are expecting your punishment upon your release from the Hospital Wing."

Harry thought Daphne's head seemed to retreat into her neck. "Yes, Professor," she said, rather meekly for her.

"You and Miss Parkinson seem to have hurt yourselves similarly. Madam Pomfrey will have a bit more work to do on her part, to re-grow a front tooth that was knocked out in your scuffle." Dumbledore walked around to Daphne's right side; Harry and Tonks moved to get out of his way. "Miss Greengrass, I understand in these tempestuous times, that emotions are at an all-time high. However, the behavior you _and _Miss Parkinson have exhibited today was completely unacceptable. I hope you are aware of that."

"Yes sir," Harry heard Daphne mumble.

"Seeing as how this is not the first time you and Miss Parkinson's interactions have resulted in a physical altercation, I have arranged with Professor Snape to sit with both of you to discuss your conflicts with each other and to ensure that you can co-exist in living quarters for the next year-and-a-half."

Harry desperately tried to restrain the skeptical snigger coming from his chest. The thought of Snape the Slytherin Referee was far too funny for him to imagine. Harry ran through all the possible methods Snape would use to torture (_err . . . teach?_) Parkinson and Daphne to get along.

"You are to participate in the discussion, Daphne, and you are to follow the rules laid out. Professor Snape will not have any patience for those that choose to willfully ignore his input—"

"Demands, more like," whispered Ron to Harry. He could only grin and nod. Daphne, Harry could tell, decided to refrain from argument; she merely sat in bed, sheepish and silent.

Dumbledore patted Daphne's head gingerly; it didn't prevent her from wincing. "Miss Greengrass, I merely want to make sure that no further incidents will occur."

Daphne nodded.

"And, as for all of you," Dumbledore said to the other teenagers, "I ask to continue to work on developing your relationships amongst the different houses. Even in our darkest times, there can be light so long as we are not alone." With a smile and a wink, Dumbledore bid them goodnight and moved gracefully away from Daphne's bed.

"Barmy, mate, I'm tellin' ya," Ron said to Harry as they watched Dumbledore's retreating back, evidently thinking the Headmaster was out of earshot.

"Oh, I daresay, Mr. Weasley, you won't find many who will argue with you on that account," Dumbledore said, turning around ever so briefly to the teenagers. He gave a another wink, a final bow and left the Hospital Wing, leaving the teenagers laughing uncontrollably, Ron, red-faced and spluttering in mortification, and Tonks giving what Harry thought was her first genuine smile in ages.

* * *

They were both seated at their respective desks at the front of the darkened Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, staring at the dark-haired man standing before them, arms folded into the vast, endless depths of his cloak.

"Well?" came his drawling voice.

"Yes . . . er, Professor. Do you want us to start or something?" Daphne spoke meekly, quailing under his stern and angry gaze.

"Seeing as we are here due to your _savage_ behavior this weekend, I think it is only fitting that either one of you start talking." Professor Snape never moved a muscle, and Daphne could only avert her eyes . . . well, actually, her _eye._ She had developed quite the shiner just in the last day or so, and required daily applications of Healer Brawley's Bruise-Begone Balm.

She flinched as she reached up to touch her still bandaged scalp. The patch of hair Parkinson had ripped out would take about a week to re-grow, with a Scalp Stimulating Solution that Daphne had had to _beg_ Madam Pomfrey to use on her. "It's really more cosmetic than medicinal, Miss Greengrass," Madam Pomfrey had said.

"Oh, _pleasepleaseplease_, Madam Pomfrey! You're such an amazing Healer and school nurse and I don't wanna go to class with a horrid bald spot until the term's over. . . ." Daphne had said, making sure to look as pathetic as she could with her bruised face. She had smirked in triumph when Pomfrey had acquiesed to her demands.

Now she sat in front of Professor Severus Snape, awaiting him to start "moderating" the discussion. Daphne noted with satisfaction that Parkinson looked just as shitty as she did. However, Daphne winced when she looked at Professor Snape's stormy face.

"Well, Professor, I went up to the dorm, and I saw Parkin-er . . . Pansy," Daphne paused momentarily as Parkinson hissed, "_Pansy_ upset and being comforted by Tracey Davis. I tried asking her what was wrong, she pulled her wand out at me and told me to get out, that I was a traitor . . . all of that." Daphne mumbled the last few words. Professor Snape turned his head sharply to face the girl sitting to Daphne's right.

"Your response, Miss Parkinson. Be aware that I have _replenished _my stores of Veritaserum, and, unlike other teachers at this school, I have no qualms about using it on students." His face never changed expression.

Parkinson gulped. "S-She's right, Professor. I was upset already, and Greeng-er . . . Daphne, walked in to our dormitory. She did ask me what was wrong, and I . . ." Parkinson shifted in her seat, grimacing in her discomfort.

"Yes, Miss Parkinson? Do _not_ keep us waiting—"

"I did overreact, sir." Parkinson didn't look at the Professor. His eyes shifted between the girls.

"I would say the _both_ of you over-reacted. And now, Professor Dumbledore has put it on my head to see that _you_ _two_," Professor Snape's mouth formed a very sour-looking "O", "learn the fine art of mutual appreciation. It _will_ _not_ _do_ to have to keep taking points away from my own House. I _am_ still looking forward to taking the House Cup from Gryffindor this year." Professor Snape turned and began pacing the length of his classroom. "Miss Parkinson, you shall enlighten us with why you were so . . . _emotional_," his upper lip curled slightly, "when Miss Greengrass found you in your dormitory." Professor Snape halted, directly in front of Parkinson's desk.

Daphne sat up, alert. She knew that Parkinson was crying about something involving Malfoy. Here was her chance to find out exactly what was going on with the rat and tell Harry everything she found out.

She gave a frustrated grunt when she saw Parkinson cross her arms defiantly.

"That's between me and Mal – my friend, Professor," she said, adopting a stubborn, cold tone that Daphne had never heard from the other girl when addressing Professor Snape.

"Miss Parkinson, in order to foster a sense of trust between yourself and Miss Greengrass, I personally think it is necessary for you to divulge the reasons why you were so distraught in the first place," Professor Snape said, leaning forward on Parkinson's desk, staring at the girl intently.

Daphne reckoned that Professor Snape was just as interested in the information as she was.

Parkinson looked away from him, shaking her head. "Dr-Draco and I had a fight, is all. I didn't want to tell _her_," Parkinson snapped her head toward Daphne, "because she'll go tell Potter and the Mudblood and Weasel, that disgusting blood-traitor." Daphne watched as Professor Snape narrowed his eyes, clearly not believing Pansy's story. "I just didn't want my business with Draco being spread all over the school."

"What — like you did with me and Nott? Or that Hufflepuff . . ."

"Well, that _was_ the truth, wasn't it, Greengrass? You like all the attention. You'll _spread_ it for anyone—"

"Oh, you _think_ you know everything, you little—"

"_Enough_!" Professor Snape's voice echoed in the classroom. "Miss Parkinson, everything that is said in this room remains confidential. You both signed this parchment, swearing an Oath of Confidentiality." Professor Snape held up the document, waving it in front of both girls. "Should either of you speak about anything taking place here, a most disgusting case of skin boils shall pop up on the most visible of places on your persons." Professor Snape rolled the parchment up and addressed Parkinson again. "I return to my original question. What were you upset about, Miss Parkinson?"

"Draco and I had a fight about his schoolwork, sir."

Professor Snape and Daphne arched one eyebrow, practically simultaneously. "Really, Miss Parkinson?" the professor drawled.

Pansy nodded. "I was afraid that he was pushing himself too much in classes and he lost his temper with me." Daphne noted the overly-cautious tone of Parkinson's voice and the way the girl slowly nodded her head, never taking her eyes off of Professor Snape. She knew that Parkinson was covering for Malfoy.

"I _see_," Professor Snape said softly. "Miss Parkinson, I assure you that I wish nothing more than to assist Draco Malfoy if he is in any trouble whatsoever. I only ask that you help me by _letting_ _me_ _know_ what's happening with Mr. Malfoy."

Daphne was now utterly lost. Professor Snape and Parkinson both were staring very intently at each other, seemingly knowing what the other was saying without actually saying anything. What was worse was that she seemed to be left out altogether.

The only thing she could say with any certainty was that the looks and glances Parkinson and Snape were giving each other were all about Draco Malfoy.

"Professor," Parkinson said slowly, "I'd like nothing more than to help Draco out, whatever needs to be done."

"Well," Professor Snape said in a quiet, even tone, "I can only tell you to _open your mind_ and I'm sure the two of us can come up with a solution."

"Wha'? _Oh_!" Parkinson exclaimed, realizing something Daphne did not.

(_Seriously, what the hell? _

(_I'm missing so many things._)

Daphne could only watch as Professor Snape and Pansy Parkinson continued to look at each other, seemingly in the deepest concentration. Minutes seemed to tick by as no other words passed between the three people.

Finally, after an eternity, Professor Snape nodded at Parkinson, glanced over at Daphne, and moved to sit at his desk.

"You both will serve detention with me for the next four weeks, every Friday night. You will serve detention together, and you will do anything that is asked of you without magic. You will both refrain from any further altercations either in your dormitory, in the common room, or elsewhere in the castle." Professor Snape looked at Pansy. "I am afraid, Miss Parkinson, that your behavior in starting the fight will necessitate the removal of your Prefect status, effective immediately. I also trust that, if you wish to assist Mr. Malfoy, then you will abide by the rules of detention and future conduct in the girls' dormitory. Do I make myself clear?"

Daphne watched as Parkinson removed her prefect badge and moved to set it on Professor Snape's desk. The professor's eyes watched each of her movements thoroughly.

"Yes, sir, I do understand." Parkinson nodded, sounding even meeker than before.

"And you, Miss Greengrass? Do you understand that you are not to engage in any further acts of physical violence toward a member of Slytherin House? You _will _comply with that order."

"Y-Yes, Professor. I can do that." Daphne stammered.

"And that revealing any of this information to _anyone_, Miss Greengrass, will cause a most unfortunate physical affliction to spread across your face. As a member of Dumbledore's Army last year, I understand that you have first-hand knowledge of just such an action."

Daphne found herself merely nodding. "Y-Yes sir, I do."

Professor Snape merely nodded. "Very well, then. The both of you are dismissed for now. Your first detention will be _this_ Friday, at _seven_ _o'clock_. Sharp. No excuses."

With that, Professor Snape went back to the documents lying haphazardly on his desk, and both Daphne and Parkinson slid out of the classroom, with no other fanfare than their own eyes, glaring ferociously at each other.

* * *

"_Psst_! _Greengrass_!"

Daphne looked around for the source of the voice.

"Over here!" came the masculine whisper.

Daphne sneaked a glance around the corner. "Zabini?"

Blaise Zabini stepped out from a tapestry near the Defense classroom.

"What're you doing? Zabinis don't stalk around hidden underneath carpets."

"Shush! I'm looking for you, but I wanted to keep a low profile—"

Daphne snorted. "Oh, is _that_ what you were doing? I couldn't tell, what with the whispering and the hiding. . . ."

Zabini rolled his eyes. "You know, I've refrained from telling you you look like something a Chinese Fireball spat out after a prolonged stomach illness, so I'd let the snide remarks slide, okay?"

Daphne set her mouth in a firm line. "So this a _friendly_ visit, is it Blaise?"

Zabini shook his head. "Not here—"

Daphne grunted in surprise as he pulled her into an abandoned classroom.

"Okay . . . _What_!" she said in exasperation.

Zabini . . .

(_Err . . . why don't we try his first name, now?_)

. . . Blaise looked at her with a serious expression, hands fisted on his hips, foot tapping in frustration. "I'm sorry for what Pansy did to you, all right?"

Daphne stared at him in shock. "You're apologizing to your _blackmailer_?" She couldn't stop herself from smiling. "This is all a bit dysfunctional, Blaise."

Blaise grunted out an agreeable snicker. "Yes, I know. I wanted to see you, though, and say — _that._" Blaise couldn't quite say "sorry" again; he merely waved his hand dismissively. "But I wanted to make sure there wasn't any bad blood on your part . . . on _our_ part."

"You mean, would I blame you for Parkinson's violent streak and would I use this as an opportunity to spread the word about your love for buggery and Ravenclaw blokes with classical good looks?" Daphne said smugly.

She took Blaise's deepened breathing as a sign that he was thinking exactly that.

Daphne felt herself plopping onto a bench of a nearby desk, sighing heavily. "You weren't there, Blaise. Boys can't go up to our dorms, okay? Teachers, like Professor Snape, can. There would've been no way for you to have done anything." She watched Blaise as he sat down in a desk, facing her.

"Do you hate me, Blaise?" Daphne asked.

Blaise snorted. "Do I hate you," he repeated vaguely. "Let me see. You took probably the best thing that ever happened to me, turned it into something ugly to benefit your needs. You lord it over my head, dangling like Damocles' sword, until I'm driving myself absolutely crazy trying to decide between traditional wizarding conventions and something . . . something _different_. . . something that our world frowns upon."

Daphne couldn't help but chuckle. "Damocles' sword? That's a bit dramatic, even for you."

Blaise cocked one eyebrow. "_I'm_ dramatic, Greengrass. I never do anything half-way." The boy averted his eyes and swallowed. "Unfortunately, being a Slytherin, I know why you did it. There was a desperation in your actions: the planning, the research, the spying. And, I think," Blaise looked at Daphne, this time eyes relaxed, but no less dark, "that it's clear you'll fight claw tooth and nail for your side," he spoke, curling his upper lip, "for _Potter's_ side. Because his side's your side now." Blaise snorted. "I've never felt that for anything before. Not for the idea of blood-superiority, not for Malfoy and his brand of Dark Arts . . . except . . ."

"Except for Ravenclaw blokes that have classical good looks. I'm right, aren't I, Blaise?"

Blaise said nothing, and Daphne knew she hit the answer right on Blaise's very aristocratic nose.

"In a way," Blaise said, "even though you go about showing it in the most despicable manner possible, you're braver than many of us, Greengrass."

Daphne had no response. She stared at Blaise, words failing on her lips.

(_He can't possibly think I'm brave?_)

(_I'm an evil blackmailer! I bribe people. I lie, cheat and steal from others to get things I want._)

(_What the bloody hell is he playing at?_)

"You're a fighter. Claw, tooth and nail, Daphne. You'll do what it takes to fight for your side."

Daphne kept opening and closing her mouth. Her side? _Her side? _After all this time, she still struggled with herself to say she was one-hundred percent on Harry's side without the constant, niggling thought in her head that she did what the trio asked of her only to get closer to Harry.

(_What about Michael Corner? Can't deny that the bloke seems to actually like you?_)

Certainly, Michael was a good boyfriend. Hell, in Daphne's limited experience with actual relationships, he really was a _great _boyfriend. They teased and snogged each other senseless. They actually had quite a bit in common, as Michael was the first boy she talked to extensively about her love of Muggle music (things like that would be positively _frowned_ upon in Slytherin) and similar senses of humor. So many times, they'd try to outwit and outjoke each other with quips and verbal entendres, and cause the other person to fall over in a fit of giggles. Plus, he told her on more than one occasion that he appreciated her frankness, her ability to spill her guts without reservation, or, as he put it, "You simply lack any internal monologue!"

But Michael was just a bit of a fling, right? _Right_? He and she couldn't be anything long-term. They weren't destined for picket fences and little witches and wizards like Ron and Hermione were.

But Michael was present. Michael was _now. _ Michael was a sure thing, whereas Harry . . .

(_Harry doesn't really seem to be that interested in you._)

But she didn't know that for sure, did she? She had never tried to make any moves. Nope. Instead, Daphne snuck around the question, revealing only to Ron the true nature of her feelings about Harry and hoped — possibly beyond rational hope — that he would see her affection for him in every sneaky, covert, Slytherin action she did for him.

Even now, with everything that had happened between Daphne, the trio and the Weasleys, Daphne felt the constant pull of just sitting everything out. Leave it alone . . . don't commit to anything . . .

And yet, it seemed she was too far gone in her own actions.

It felt like she had already made her choice.

Was there anything — or anyone — that could make her stop what she was doing?

"Er, Greengrass?" Blaise waved a hand in front of her. Daphne snapped back around to attend to him. "You were completely lost in 'Daphne-ville'." Blaise smirked. "Did I offend your sensibilities by saying you're brave?"

Daphne couldn't even bring herself to any sort of coherent acknowledgement of Blaise's lame joke. "No," she said mildly, shaking her head. "I'm just trying to impress someone's, s'all."

"Potter, you mean?" Blaise asked. Daphne looked at the floor and shrugged.

"Seems like a lot of trouble, Greengrass, just to get a boy to notice you." Blaise regarded her with narrowed eyes and flattened mouth.

Daphne stared at her feet as Blaise made this most astute observation. After a few moments, she cleared her throat. "May-maybe it, um . . . it is. Too much trouble, that is."

"Do you think you're really a believer in the cause? Do you want to join the fight against _him_?" Blaise asked her.

Daphne merely looked up at him. "I thought I already did. Isn't that what all of you think?"

Blaise merely nodded.

"I'll ask you again, Blaise. We've talked some about this before, you and I. Where are you now, with all this pure-blood this, 'Harry Potter' that?" Daphne draped her hand limply over her knee, her legs crossed loosely.

Blaise looked at her. "I know what Eddie _wants_ me to believe, Daphne. I also know what I've been told all my life."

"And what if it was _all_ _wrong_, Blaise?" Daphne leaned forward. "What if it didn't matter, all this 'purity of blood' speech and thinking? What if it's all equal; Mudbloods and pure-bloods. What if no one stole their powers. What if Mud-. . . I mean Muggle-borns didn't drain magic from purer-blooded wizards. Blaise, I've heard about mistakes in Muggle science and medicine being made all the time. There are Muggle Healers and Muggle researchers that are always on the news that Elvira watches. They're always talking about some new development and new bit of information that changes everything they ever knew . . ."

"And they're Muggles! They're going to mess things up." Blaise merely shook his head. "They don't have magic that can help them figure things out. Their ways are imperfect, you know? That's why they make mistakes. 'The Healer' didn't lie when he wrote that article."

Daphne slouched back in her chair, deflated. So, they were back to that ancient paper of Healer Stallsworth's.

Nothing, other than finding someone who could contradict that arse-hole's research would give Blaise pause to reconsider his viewpoint.

(_Well, if _that's_ what I've gotta do to earn Eddie Carmichael's money, it's what I've gotta do._)

* * *

**A/N: **A bit of a long chapter, I know. I'd love to hear from ya in a review! Thanks so much for reading, reviewing and alerting this story.

I also just added "Neville Longbottom: A Second Thought." It's a one-shot set in the "From Hell" universe that goes a bit into Neville's character. Check it out, if ya can :0) Thanks so much!


	23. Chapter 22: Putting the Pieces Together

**A/N: **Thank you to my beta, stella8h8chang for your help with this chapter (as well as the whole work!) If you have a chance, click on her link in my profile page, and check out her own works. Her current series, _**Tempus Amat Volare**_ is a brilliant piece set in turn-of-the-century Hogwarts and features IntellectualAlbus! as a youth.

I own nothing, and rated T for strong language. **

* * *

**

**Chapter 22: Putting the Pieces Together**

After the altercation between Daphne and Pansy Parkinson, an uneasy truce befell the two Slytherin girls. The glares remained true and steady; one couldn't walk between either without feeling a coolness that had nothing to do with Slytherin's common room being in the dungeons. Daphne went out of her way _not_ to touch Pansy Parkinson if it could ever be helped, and vice versa.

Their determination to have no physical contact whatsoever with each other caused some amount of entertainment in the Slytherin common room when both girls would be physically present. The other students would create situations that would force Daphne and Parkinson into close proximity with each other, trying to push one into the other's path. Bets were also taken among the boys, started by Blaise for his own amusement, about when Daphne and Parkinson would accidentally bump together, thus beginning World War Three. . . .

"I'll give it a week!"

"Dunno, they're pretty determined."

"They can't_ not_ touch each other. I mean, they sleep in the same bloody dormitory! How about until January tenth, a week from now?"

"Put me down for January fifteenth, at night, no time specified. They'll _have_ to brush up against each other on their way to the bathrooms . . . Catfight here we come!"

"Ante up, gentlemen!" Blaise Zabini would say, with a gleeful smirk.

Despite Blaise's current job as one _very_ annoying bookie, Daphne noticed that he was also hanging about her with more frequency. At times, Blaise would walk her to class and even sit with her at meals. Such a new development startled Daphne, as she was used to eating in solitude — except for the times when Malfoy and his gang would taunt her and throw food in her direction.

More startling was that Daphne suspected Blaise actually _enjoyed_ being in her company. Every once in a while, he'd bring up the whole magical blood issue, and he and Daphne would go at it in a reasonable debate. Daphne was currently researching _anything_ to provide a thorough rebuttal to Healer Stallsworth's venerated publications; it was the most common ideology that many of the older Slytherins clung to in their defense of pure-blood superiority. Well . . . second only to parroting perspectives inherited through their old blood lines.

Other times, Blaise and Daphne's conversations focused on Eddie and Eloise, with Blaise often using Daphne as a sounding board (_unwillingly, mind you_!) about whatever conflict was currently boiling and rolling inside of him.

At dinner one evening, Daphne complained about Blaise's incessant, pointless yapping about his confused and muddled love life.

Blaise merely scoffed.

"Well, it's only so much as you deserve, my little blackmailing bint!"

Daphne made sure her salty chip hit Blaise squarely on his regal nose.

One person wholly overjoyed with Daphne and Blaise's new "friendship" was Eddie Carmichael. Asking her to meet him in an empty classroom the second week of term, Eddie handed over the first half of the extra payment he had promised her for talking to Blaise and convincing him that pure-blood superiority nonsense was just that.

Daphne shook her head as she took the money.

"He's being stubborn about it, C'." Looking at Eddie's face, he clearly didn't believe that. Eddie gave her a lopsided smile.

"You're making a much bigger difference than you think, Greengrass. Blaise _is_ stubborn, but he's been willing to listen to you, about your side, your beliefs. He'll talk about it too, you know. Brings it up in conversation with me—"

"So you two are doing well, then?" Daphne looked at Eddie, who was still grinning with crimson spreading across his very handsome cheeks.

"Guess you could say that. He's stopped draping himself solely around Eloise all the time. Surely you've noticed that."

Daphne had noticed Blaise backing off Eloise Midgen for the last few weeks. She had also picked up on a number of fleeting glances between the two blokes, even from across the Hall, as the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables were farthest apart from each other.

However, not everyone was as understanding about the obvious amicable companionship between the two Slytherins.

"_Daphne_! _Daphne Greengrass_."

Daphne turned as she heard her name being called out by a very feminine voice. Eloise Midgen was quickly walking to meet up with her on a cold and cloudy Saturday in late January.

"Hi, er . . . we've never met before, but I'm—"

"Eloise Midgen. I know." Daphne couldn't help but eye the girl suspiciously.

"Yes. I'm glad you do know me. I wanted to talk to you, because I've seen you hanging out with Blaise Zabini--"

"Because he and I are _friends_." Daphne placed careful emphasis on the last word.

Eloise's brow quickly furrowed. "Yes . . . Okay. Well, You've been hanging out with him more though, than usual."

"He and I have a project to work on." Daphne continued to regard her cautiously.

"Still. It just seems like something's going on between the both of you—"

Daphne rearranged her face so she would look as innocent as possible and shook her head. "Erm . . . nope . . . no . . . Nothing at all other than Slytherin love and schoolwork."

Eloise clearly wasn't buying it.

(_Isn't she in Hufflepuff? Aren't they all supposed to be extremely thick or something? C'mon, Midge _. . . stop_ using that brain of yours!_)

"He was spending time with me, though," Eloise said, "and, lately, he's been backing off—"

"Oh, bloody hell! Would you look at that," Daphne interrupted, raising her left wrist to check her non-existent watch. "The time! Gotta run, Eloise. This was great, y'know. Getting to know Blaise's favorite girl and all. We'll catch up later, right?" And before any response could come out of Eloise's pretty pouty mouth, Daphne sprinted down the hall, up the stairs.

And straight into Arthur Weasley.

"Oh, _Merlin_ . . . Daphne?"

"Mr. Weasley?" Daphne looked up and gave a surprised smile. "Um . . . hi. What's going on? Keeping an eye out on Ron and Ginny?"

Arthur Weasley chuckled.

"Heavens no," Arthur replied. "I'm here on Ministry business, with a couple of other M.L.E. personnel."

"Dad?" Arthur and Daphne turned around and saw Ron and Hermione approaching them.

"Hello Ron. Hermione." Arthur said. He moved toward Ron to give his son a hug. Ron backed away, a horrified look on his face."

"_Dad_! What're you thinking? Not in public . . . everyone'll _see_."

Hermione swatted him. "Ron! Be nice. He's your father."

Arthur merely chuckled and extended his hand for Ron to shake. "Well, to be fair, Hermione, I probably would've been mortified myself if my dad tried to hug me as a seventeen-year-old during school hours."

"What's going on? Everyone all right?" Ron asked with a worried brow.

"Oh, son, don't worry. Everyone's fine," Arthur said as Ron's relief showed on his expressive face, "I'm here with a few other M.L.E. personnel. Whenever anything pops up these days, the Auror office and M.L.E. Department send at least one representative out from each division to check out the situation themselves. You never know what might come up." Arthur gave the teenagers a wink.

"So, something happened? At Hogwarts?" Ron asked. Looking around with his smile still on his face, Arthur beckoned the teenagers to follow him toward a cubbyhole where they could talk more in secret. The teens leaned forward as Arthur's face grew more serious.

"To be honest, I'm not supposed to tell you about any of this, as there's an investigation pending, but there may be nothing to it, other than mead contamination."

"Mead contamination?" Hermione said slowly, trying to grasp this new bit of information.

"Well, perhaps it was the mead or the barrels themselves that were contaminated, we're not quite sure yet. But, suffice it to say, we're operating on an anonymous tip someone sent to the Ministry that some of the consumables in the Hogsmeade area might have been stored in barrels where Red Algae had grown inside."

Daphne and Ron both looked over at Hermione, who let out a surprised, strangled yelp. "Red Algae? _Red Algae?_ Mr. Weasley, are you sure they said Red Algae?"

Arthur looked at Hermione curiously. "Er, yes, Hermione. Is something wrong?"

Hermione leaped up and started talking quickly to herself. "How could I have been so _stupid?_! I didn't even think about checking . . . I've got to run to the library . . . Restricted Section . . . sure to have it."

"_Hermione!_" Ron called after her. "Blimey, I hate it when she does that," he muttered to the others. "She goes all mental when she's had an epiphany."

Daphne snorted, but turned back to Ron's father. "Mr. Weasley, what's Red Algae?"

"Well, it's a very poisonous plant in the wizarding world. Produces a toxin that Muggles call cyanide. It grows naturally in our forests, particularly on older oak trees within or in close proximity to magical areas. Sometimes, food or drink can be made and stored in wood products that have been infected. That seems to have been the case here, although the barrels and any other food storage containers are given protective charms to prevent this very thing from happening. Which is why I'm here — to see how they got around the protective charms, or even if the barrels _had _protection on them. Plus, given the recent attacks with the Death Eaters, and You-Know-Who, the Ministry was put on extra alert when the tainted products were made known, so each department had to be sent out to cover as much ground as possible."

"So, somebody could've put Red Algae in the mead?" Ron asked his father.

Arthur blinked and nodded. "Anything's possible these days, Ron."

"Arthur Weasley!" A thundering, cheerful voice yelled out. The group of three turned around to face Professor Slughorn.

"Well, I must say, Arthur," Slughorn clapped his back jovially, "although it is a pleasure to see you here, I do wish it was under better circumstances."

Arthur smiled at the Potions professor. "Once again, Professor Slughorn—"

"Please, Arthur. Friends of Albus are friends of mine, indeed! Call me Horace."

"Once again, Horace, I'm very sorry about your mead. I will make sure that the Ministry will reimburse you for your supply."

Slughorn waved his hand, refusing such generosity.

"No, no. It's a small price to pay. That barrel of mead was going to be a Christmas present for Albus, or at least a 'Welcome back from your mysterious travels!' present." Slughorn gave a great chuckle. "Albus hasn't been around much lately. . . ."

Ron and Daphne slipped away from the two adults. "So, Red Algae contamination, and Granger the Genius goes completely off her rocker when she heard about it. What do you think, Ron?"

Ron rubbed his chin. "Got no bloody idea. To the library, eh?"

Daphne nodded. "Where's Harry?"

"I think we left him in the common room. Hey Dad!" Ron shouted, interrupting his father's conversation with their Potions Master. Daphne cringed, rather Hermione-like and hit him on the arm.

"You shouldn't interrupt, Ron."

"Hark, you sound like Hermione." Ron snickered. Daphne rolled her eyes. "Dad, Daphne and I are gonna go find Hermione and Harry. Are you going to be around here?"

Arthur nodded. "I was thinking about staying for dinner. The Aurors and other law enforcement agents need to finish up their investigations, and I'll run my own spells and check the Dark Detectors and other protective devices at Hogwarts as well."

"Can we meet around the Great Hall at about five o'clock, then?" Ron asked him.

"No problem, son." Arthur smiled at the two kids as they turned and started for the Gryffindor common room to find Harry.

* * *

"We didn't even consider the possibility of poisonous plants!" Hermione lunged forward onto the table and dropped Neville's copy of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _with a loud _thud. _Hermione had also pulled a number of books about Muggle European history and one book Harry could tell was from the Restricted Section; there were moss and vines growing all over it and the only person who could touch it was the person to whom the book was released. The foliage retreated as soon as Hermione's fingers ran over the book's spine.

Hermione took a seat directly in front of Harry, Daphne and Ron who were all seated like students about to sit through another lecture from an overly excited teacher.

Adopting her most studious expression, Hermione leaned forward to them, desperate to keep her voice low so as not to get kicked out. "Red Algae is a magical plant that produces a liquid toxin with the _exact_ same physical and molecular qualities as the Muggle toxin cyanide. It's essentially the same thing, no difference whatsoever — same colorless appearance, same almond odor. In fact, prior to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy of 1692, Muggles replicated the secretions of Red Algae to create an early, crude form of cyanide, which they later adapted to become a gas, a solid or a liquid. They were able to do this through the practice of alchemy.

"After this development, cyanide became well-known in Muggle history as a poison. We see it all the time in fictional Muggle crime literature, movies, and television shows. More sinister, more . . . _horrific_ however, cyanide figured prominently in our actual Muggle history — it," Hermione faltered a bit as she spoke, "it was used during the Holocaust." Daphne and Harry gave low whistles, understanding well what Hermione was talking about.

Ron was confused.

"What's that?" he asked with a troubled brow.

Hermione swallowed and continued talking in a hushed tone. "In the 1930's and 1940's — actually, around the same time the dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald was in power — there was a Muggle dictator named Adolf Hitler who took control of Germany and much of Europe. He created the Nazi Party and fostered an atmosphere of anti-Semitism, violent prejudice against Jews, a Muggle religious and ethnic group. He and the Nazis persecuted millions and millions of Jews all over Europe, creating slum-like ghetto communities and forcing the Jewish populations in numerous countries to live in the most inhumane conditions." Here, Hermione took a breath and sat back in her chair. "To be honest, it actually wasn't limited to Jewish people, but a number of different groups faced persecution. Hitler eventually authorized the systematic deaths of millions of people based on their race and sexual orientation. He even went after the mentally ill. Eventually, he sent all of his prisoners to places called 'concentration camps'. Hitler's army forced the prisoners into chambers that appeared to be large showering rooms and gassed then with cyanide in fatal doses."

Ron's expression fell. "That's . . . there's _no_ words." He turned his head to look at both Harry and Daphne. "Muggles were actually capable of that?" he asked softly.

Hermione nodded solemnly. "It seems wizards and Muggles are capable of anything, be it good or evil, if they put their minds to it."

"I'm not even sure if You-Know-Who actually killed _millions _of witches, wizards or Muggles like this Hitler did." Ron said quietly. He looked away. "Although, it sounds like You-Know-Who took after Hitler's ideas and applied them to Muggle-borns." Harry heard the subdued tone of Ron's voice and looked at his friend; the quick lesson about Muggle history seemed to have hit Ron really hard. Hermione appeared to have noticed as well; she gave a small cough and proceeded on with her discussion.

"W-We could go over all the similarities and differences between Voldemort and Hitler, and it would take days and weeks." Hermione smiled sympathetically at Ron. "But . . . well, that was honestly some background information about the whole Red Algae and cyanide issue. Just to return back to the previous discussion—" Hermione looked over again at Ron, who snapped forward to listen to her, "cyanide was also used in poisoning deaths, including Hitler's suicide—"

"He deserved worse," piped in Ron. Harry and Daphne nodded. Hermione gave a small, solemn nod, acknowledging her agreement with Ron.

"And cyanide was also reputed to be the poison that was used — although it wasn't the _actual_ cause of death — on the Russian monk Rasputin." Hermione twirled the open book in front of her and pushed it toward the other three teenagers. She sat back . . . and waited for responses that never came. "Well?"

Harry was confused.

(_What the hell does Rasputin have to do with Red Algae? Cyanide or no_—)

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a gasp to his left. Daphne jolted forward, eyes wide in shock. "_Raspy's Bane_! Of course." Daphne pointed at the Footnote at the bottom of page 951. "In December of 1916, the Russian monk Rasputin was lured by a group of nobles and fed food and drink containing massive amounts of cyanide. Of course, it took a beating, several gunshot wounds to his back, being tossed into a river, _and_ enough poison to kill a dragon to bring about the physical downfall of Russia's most notorious monk . . ." Daphne looked back up at the others, her eyes positively sparking. "Cyanide was the _bane_ of Rasputin, even if he didn't _die _die from it, they still tried to assassinate him with it _and _with a large enough dose to cause serious damage to an animal roughly the size of England!"

"And although he was a Muggle religious figure, Rasputin continues to be the subject and inspiration for many wizarding tales and legends of the 20th century," Hermione continued. "He was reputed to have mystical powers and Seeing abilities. So, after Rasputin's death, the wizarding world began referring to Red Algae as—" Hermione swept her hands out in a demonstrative fashion.

Harry and Ron looked down at the book, and then at each other. Harry smacked his forehead. "_Rasputin's Bane! _I can't believe it." He turned to Hermione. "You did it! This proves, once and for all, that Malfoy did do this, that the necklace he bought was the 'Black Dawn' necklace."

"Which also means you were right all along Harry," said Ron, strangely quiet. "You were right, and we didn't believe you after all."

"Doesn't matter," Harry said absent-mindedly. He was far too excited about this new revelation. "I'll run straight to Dumbledore and tell him what we know!"

"You should talk to my dad too, Harry," Ron said after a few moments. "He'd want to know, and maybe they could do another search of Malfoy Manor. See if maybe he can locate the 'M'nt'gue', or if he even knows what it might be."

Hermione grimaced as if she just thought of something. "Maybe, Harry . . . maybe Dumbledore, or even Snape, was the person that sent notice to the Ministry about the mead contamination. Maybe they're looking into whatever this 'M'nt'gue' is, but they're just not telling you."

Harry creased his brow. "Why the hell would he not tell me? We gave him the _damn_ receipt!" Harry felt the anger in his chest rising.

"Well, for one, maybe Dumbledore wants you to focus your energies _elsewhere_." Hermione lowered her eyes at him, giving him a very long, deliberate look.

(_Oh! Right. Memories of Voldemort and Horcruxes . . . and we can't bring it up here, not with Daphne sitting right next to me . . ._)

Harry nodded and sat back in his chair. "Right," he said in an annoyed yet resigned tone. "Ron, when do we meet up with your dad?"

"Um," Ron looked at his old watch, "we're supposed to meet him in about an hour in front of the Great Hall," he said mildly.

"Okay, I'll stay here, write some more notes down about Red Algae and what we now think we know about 'Raspy's Bane' and clean up this mess. Harry, what are you going to do?"

"Urgh," Harry grunted. "I guess I _could_ get started with Snape's essay," he said with a sneer. "Because, y'know, that's about as fun as watching Umbridge and Filch dance together starkers. Which," Harry exaggeratedly shivered with disgust, "is just _gross_! Why did I even go there?"

"I'll just go back to my common room, then," Daphne interjected, a bit sheepishly.

"I'll walk you back," Ron said with a grin. The two nodded at Harry and Hermione and left the library to head toward the dungeons.

* * *

"Is it depressing? Being in the dungeons." Ron asked Daphne as he walked her toward Slytherin House. Daphne merely shrugged.

"I've never really thought about it. My first year, I actually thought it was kind of cool and creepy, sort of Gothic, y'know?" Daphne gave him a lopsided grin. "By the way, you all right? Seems like the conversation took something out of you."

Ron blinked a few times. "I just . . . you remember those dreams I was having, right?"

Daphne nodded.

"Well, hearing about this Hitler, what he did to other people — a whole _lot _of other people — it was insane, wasn't it? It was so evil, so cruel. And what I saw from that Auror's brain . . . I didn't know Muggles had it in them to treat each other like that, like Death Eaters or whatever. To pick and choose who'd die, no matter if they were innocent. Killing them just because of who they were." Ron shook his head.

"Like how Voldemort kills Muggle-borns," Daphne said after a beat. "Muggle-borns like Hermione."

Ron made a small grunting sound and nodded his head slightly. "It's barmy of me, right?"

Daphne looked at him, disbelief and sympathy written on her face. "No, Ron. It isn't. It's absolutely, one-hundred percent reasonable for you to think about this. If Vol-. . . You – Know – Who," she corrected, watching Ron squirm, "if _he _were to win, if he were in power, I know the first thing he'd do would be to go after witches and wizards like Hermione, like Colin Creevey, and all the other Muggle-borns here. Dunno when, or if, they'd stop there, once they got rid of Muggle-borns, y'know? Who's to say they wouldn't go after first-generation half-bloods. I could be put in that category. I don't know who my father was, and Dumbledore said my mum was a witch. They could make degrees of blood purity and declare which ones were appropriate, and which ones—" Daphne's breath hitched in her throat.

"Which ones they'd 'fix', right?" Ron said a bit shakily.

She nodded. "Exterminate," Daphne said in a soft voice. Ron blinked a couple of times and stared ahead.

"Ron, your fears, those are valid, okay? They're good, see? Means that you can love and care about others. You're not gonna hurt people — well, at least on purpose. You're human. You're no monster, that's for sure. So, no, not barmy. Not barmy at all."

Ron smiled at her. "Thanks for that. Helpful, you know . . . coming from The Littlest Snake." Ron's smile floated to one side of his face. Daphne smacked him on the arm.

"Prat!"

"Dork!"

"Well, well, _well,_" a voice drawled in front of them. Daphne groaned and Ron's hand flew to his wand; there was no mistaking the haughty arrogance of that voice.

"Malfoy, I thought Professor Snape said _no harassment whatsoever_." Daphne emphasized each word as the Slytherin boy advanced toward them.

Ron glared at the rodent, but as he did so, he winced internally. Malfoy looked like utter hell. His skin was paler than usual, and his face looked sunken. Maybe it was the shadow of dark circles under his eyes, and the concave look of his cheeks. He looked rather like a gust of wind could carry him away.

Whatever feeling resembling pity towards the rat was welling up in Ron, it was quickly dashed by the idiotic smirk growing on Malfoy's face. The blond trained his wand on them.

"So, Greengrass . . . snuggling up to the Weasel now? Zabini and Potter not enough for you, so you're letting _him_ dip his wand into the busiest hole at Hogw—"

Ron lazily flicked his wrist, shouting "_Silencio_!" in his head. Malfoy kept moving his mouth, but nothing came out. Daphne stared at Ron in shock.

"Your handiwork?" she said, pointing at Malfoy.

Ron shrugged and grinned, "Guess Snape's not all that bad of a teacher."

Anger obvious on his soundless face, Malfoy threw down his wand and ran toward them.

"_Protego_!"

"_Petrificus_ _Totalus_!"

Ron and Daphne shouted their spells in unison, Petrifying Malfoy and causing his newly stiffened body to bounce off the rather large shield thrown in front of them. Both teens looked at each other.

"Well, damn. That was easy, wasn't it?" Daphne said.

"Little ferret didn't put up too much of a fight. Look at him, D'," Ron said, looking at Malfoy's still form, gray eyes flitting around them. "You never mentioned that he looked like dragon shit."

"Hmm. Guess I never really paid much attention to him. Blond, twiggy dicks aren't my cup of pumpkin juice, I s'pose." Daphne looked back at Ron. "What say you, Ron, that we leave him here. Might do him some good to _rest._ Take some time off from his busy schedule of lurking about the castle ready to hex our buttocks off." She cocked her head at Malfoy in mock pity. Ron smirked at the rat.

"Sounds good to me. You coming with us to eat with Dad, right?" Ron asked her. Daphne nodded.

"Sure. I do need to run to my room and put some things away. Wait for me outside, okay?"

Ron nodded and the two students walked away, leaving Malfoy lying on the ground until they returned from Slytherin House.

* * *

Professor Dumbledore was kind enough to allow the teenagers and Ginny and Arthur the use of the staff room to eat their dinner that evening. Harry managed to tell Ron's dad about their discovery of Malfoy's Borgin and Burkes receipt and the connection to the attack on Katie Bell and the Red Algae mead contamination. Arthur let out a low whistle as the information came roaring at him.

"Hmm . . . 'M'nt'gue' eh? Magical furniture . . ." Arthur rubbed his chin, considering any and all possible connections. "I've never heard anything like that before. Could be a line of magical furniture, I reckon. You said it was on the receipt and you gave it to Dumbledore?"

Harry nodded. "It was marked through, but we were able to make out what it said. Dumbledore might not have known enough information to keep Katie Bell from getting attacked, but it does look like the mead contamination might be this 'Raspy's Bane' that was on the receipt. Maybe there's some clue or something . . . _anything_ at all at Borgin and Burkes that would give some sort of clue as to what it is, and maybe what Malfoy is using it for."

Arthur sighed. "Well, there was certainly nothing when we checked Malfoy Manor in September on your tip, Harry. Maybe whatever this 'M'nt'gue is _is _at Borgin and Burkes. I'll check with Dumbledore, get the information that he has, and go from there. Okay?"

Harry smiled at the man. "Cheers, Mr. Weasley." The rest of the conversation focused on school, Ron's family, preparations for Bill and Fleur's wedding, and a constant stream of sibling and sibling-like teasing between Ron, Daphne and Ginny as Harry, Hermione and Arthur sat back, giggling.

* * *

"So," said Michael Corner, talking against Daphne's lips. "I've seen you talking—" (_Smooch_!) "with Zabini—" (S_mack_!) "a lot lately." It was just after dinner, and Michael had caught up with her as she got up from the Slytherin table, pulling her into an empty classroom on the second floor. They had some time before curfew, and Michael told her he planned to use that time _very_ wisely.

Michael leaned in for another kiss, but Daphne pulled away.

"You're jealous?" Daphne asked with a small smirk. Michael shrugged.

"I admit only to being curious. I know you two dated—"

"Oh, I don't think you can call what Blaise and I did 'dating'," Daphne chortled.

Michael looked confused. "But, I thought you two . . . y'know . . . you _shagged_ him."

Now, it was Daphne's turn to shrug. "It was just shagging." She spoke with a light chuckle.

(_Nothing serious! Apparently, I'm no Eddie Carmichael . . ._)

She saw Michael's face fall as she moved in to kiss him again. "What?" she asked him.

"It was 'just shagging'?" he said in a slow, measured tone.

"I hear an echo, don't you?" Daphne said with what she hoped was a mollifying grin. Michael continued to merely look at her. "Michael spit it out. If you have something you want to say—"

"That's sad, that is, Daphne."

She looked at him with a quizzical expression. "Michael, it's just _sex_! It's not about love or anything—"

"But, it should be," Michael gave her a look full of disappointment, of . . . sadness? Pity?

She wanted to cringe, to hide from this judgmental expression that he was giving her.

"Well, it _wasn't_, Corner." She didn't bother using his first name; her agitation was growing. "It was just for fun a few times, some blow jobs here and there—"

"Hey!" Daphne stopped talking as Michael cringed and interrupted her, quite loudly. His face softened and his voice fell in volume. "It's just sad that you didn't seem to like yourself enough to wait for someone whom you really liked to do that stuff with." Michael shook his head.

Daphne just sat and looked at Michael. She wanted whatever this . . . these . . . feelings were to not be rumbling around in her body, making her head and heart hurt.

No one had ever challenged her on her views about sex and her body. No one had ever made her think her behavior might not be healthy or good. She merely thought sex was just _sex_.

She wanted to have fun, no emotional attachments, no stupid girly worries about things.

Sex was fun and frivolous.

And, Daphne thought, it was just her, her body, her choice what to do with it.

Having someone defying that well-constructed, convincing nonchalance was unnerving . . . and it pissed her off.

She didn't need love. She didn't _want_ love.

She didn't care . . . she didn't care . . . she didn't care . . .

"I happen to _like _myself fine!" Daphne stood up abruptly, snatching her cloak off the floor. She didn't bother to reattach it to her; she balled it up and threw it into her bookbag. "I have no problem with myself, my body." She looked at him, at Michael's shocked face. She knew her eyes were starting to water, and she convinced herself (_almost, Greengrass_) that they were angry tears. "I _chose_ to do those things, so if you have a problem with that, then just go _fuck_ _off_, Corner!" She wanted to laugh as she watched him flinch, but she couldn't, not when she was focusing all of her energy to _not_ cry. "Go find yourself a clean, pure _virgin_ so you can hold hands and drink tea and play Patty-cake with them." She tried to ignore the growing tremors in her voice; the water in her eyes spilled out. "I'll go find myself a real _man_ to fuck me until I can't . . ." and she stopped. Her chin shook violently, and her teeth were hitting each other through the vibrations. She brought her hands to cover her face and she turned around. No way did she want Michael to see her like this.

She couldn't stop the gasping sobs that came out of her body. That's when she felt two hands on her shoulders, and gentle pressure turning her around.

She didn't resist as she felt two arms surround her body, which shook violently even as it was pulled into a surprisingly strong and comforting embrace.

"I like you, okay? I like you a lot. I'm not with you for only one thing." Daphne heard through her sobbing and panting for air. "It's okay . . . it's okay," came the soothing, deep tone of his voice as his jumper grew damp, catching her tears.

* * *

"Here you go, Ron," said Flora M. Auditor as she handed Ron a folder filled with parchments. Ron took it in one of his big, pale hands, hesitantly. He creased his brow, looking at Flora.

"What is it?" he asked her.

Flora gave him a small smile. "I did some research at the Ministry — without giving anyone your name. Your Headmaster assisted me with going through the more difficult channels. I was able to put together some information about your Auror, Isabella Winston."

Ron sat up, gulping. "Y-You found out about her? Her background? Who she was?" He felt his hands shaking as he held the folder. Flora nodded, gently smiling at the redheaded boy.

"One of the more mundane functions of the Department of Mysteries, and perhaps the only job of that department that is public knowledge, is that they handle psychological profiling for their toughest, most mentally grueling careers. Isabella's brain was in the Department that night because they were working on profiles for potential Aurors and their Special Operations Division. Ron, I do hope this okay."

Ron nodded. "Yeah, er . . . I mean, I kept having these nightmares about her, seeing her memories, and sensing things that she'd sensed. It would be good to know more about her."

Flora's smile widened. "I thought it might help with our sessions, Ron."

She let Ron get settled and she began talking.

"Isabella Winston was a member of Hufflepuff when she attended school here from 1966 to 1973. She was Muggle-born; her father died of cancer when she was four years old and her mother was a schoolteacher in Bristol who died herself after Isabella left Hogwarts. When she was at Hogwarts, she was the top student in her Defense Against the Dark Arts class, and, of course, she excelled in most of her other classes — she did become an Auror, after all. She was also quite a Chaser for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. Most accounts describe her as a loud, tomboy- type while she was in school, but dead smart, good with her classes and books. Many described her as being 'tough as a bloke'; she'd often had to be cited for language, sometimes she would even get into physical altercations. After she left Hogwarts, she applied with her boyfriend to the Ministry's Auror Program. By this time, the first war had already begun and You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters were carrying on their campaign of terror and violence. Unfortunately, during their training, Isabella's boyfriend was killed during an attack in a forest around Hereford.

"Now, many of the psychological profiles about Auror Winston that I read, Ron, stated that she went through a lot of changes — mental and emotional changes — after she left Hogwarts, once she got into the Auror program, and then when her boyfriend died. Isabella had been planning to marry him, and both were merely waiting out the training program's completion. Many said she became more like a machine; she still had a blustery, off-color sense of humor, but it was more relentless, more abrasive. She never showed her emotions, either. Isabella became more physical but remained detached emotionally; whether she fought bad guys in magical or Muggle ways or — and it sounds like you saw some of this — she had any casual relationships with the opposite sex. Once she finished training, Isabella applied for Special Operations, the branch of the Auror Department that was entrusted with deep undercover work, international assignments, the really big, dirty stuff. Isabella immersed herself in the S.O. for the next four years. She was captured in early January, 1980 during one of her deep undercover assignments; post-war reports seemed to indicate that her cover was blown by one of You – Know – Who's inner circle. I'm not sure how she was discovered." Flora shook her head. Ron merely looked down at the folder in his hands.

"The investigation into her disappearance and death was able to discern that Isabella died in March, 1980. Isabella has no surviving family; she didn't marry nor did she have any children.

Here, Flora paused, clearing her throat and taking a sip of her water. Ron stayed silent, wanting to see if Flora would continue the conversation.

"She was definitely a tough woman, Ron. And I don't mean because she was an Auror. But she was tough in good and bad ways. She never let herself be defined by her limitations. If you look at the file, she was about five-seven, and a thin, rather reedy woman, with blonde hair and a heart-shaped face. Physically, she wasn't intimidating at all. However, if you were her target, she showed you no mercy. By the same token, Isabella put up many, _many_ walls mentally and emotionally after she lost her fiancée and the further along she developed as an Auror. She lost herself, and losing oneself is never good."

"But her being tough is what helped her when she was imprisoned, Flora. I mean she left herself, her own body, as the Death Eaters attacked her. She could just float away."

Flora paused and nodded. "That might be true, Ron, but, according to her records and other reports, that was how Isabella handled most of her post-Hogwarts life. Physically present, emotionally detached. Which is why you are very lucky."

Ron looked at her with a confused expression. "Lucky? I'm poor and thick-headed, and pretty unimportant in the grand scheme of things."

Flora shook her head vigorously, before Ron even stopped talking. "No, Ron. Remember what I said during the session where you finally opened up about your nightmares? I said you were funny, loyal, and brave. You have an indomitable spirit about you, too."

Ron shrugged. "Don't see how that makes me luckier than Isabella. I mean, she kicked tons of Death Eater arse. Me? I let myself get hit with, I dunno, a Disorientation or Confunding Hex or something. I had no idea what was going on around me, Flora. And I couldn't protect Hermione or Harry. . . ."

"I don't just mean with the Death Eater attack on you and your friends, Ron. I mean, you have something about yourself, something in here," Flora pointed to her head, "and here," she moved her had to the top part of her chest, laying it palm down, "that doesn't want to let _you _go. You've seen and heard of things — really dark, bad things — and you were assaulted with those horrible images in your head. But there is something inside you that seems to refuse to let _you_ lose yourself. You should definitely remember that. Keep it. Hold onto it, because it sounds like none of us have seen the last of the dark times ahead."

Ron looked at the file folder. His hands kept turning the documents around and around; he could feel small beads of sweat growing on his palms.

"Flora, you really think I'm strong?"

Flora nodded. "You are as strong as long as you have faith in yourself, Ron. Love from your family and friends is wonderful . . . but being able to love yourself is a different matter altogether. That's something that takes time."

"Takes time?" Ron asked, eyebrow raised.

"But if you can be content with yourself, happy with who you are and confident, you'll make sure that Ron Weasley stays Ron Weasley—"

"Forever and ever, right?" Ron said, in a rather morose tone. He noticed, but barely registered, Flora's faltering smile, as the bell rang in the hospital wing, letting them know their hour was up.

* * *

**A/N: **The Rasputin mentions come from my own memory and sharpened a bit by Wikipedia. And I do hope that the brief discussion about the Holocaust was handled sensitively, yet written in a way that conforms to the Harry Potter universe. I certainly mean no offense.

Please feel free to leave a review, and let me know what you think about the whole "Raspy's Bane" discussion. Also, if you haven't done so, check out my one-shot series, "A Second Thought", now with Neville, Hermione, Draco and Pansy, and my outtake from chapter 19, "Our Bodies are Magic" -- featuring the most awkward moment ever between Ron and Snape.


	24. Chapter 23: Conversations in Halls

**A/N:** Rated T for strong language and non-explicit heavy petting situations. This chapter was a bit difficult for me to write because of the Ron and Hermione scene. It's more what goes on in Ron's head rather than anything "smutty". Hope it came out right!

I own nothing. Thanks so much to my beta, stella8h8chang for all of her input and revisions. Love to hear from ya in a review!

* * *

**Chapter 23: Conversations in Halls and Rooms**

"_To_-day, we shall focus on resistance of the Imperius Curse," came the all-too familiar, oily-slick drawl. Snape paused as he let the Defense Club gasp and stutter around the Great Hall. He sneered, ever so slightly, and Harry saw Daphne snicker in response.

"You think it's funny that Snape's all sadistic?" Harry asked her dryly.

"Harry, you're so _melodramatic_, you know that," Daphne swatted at him. Harry gave her a small grin and shook his head. "Besides, don't you think we need to practice some resistance to the Unforgivables? Mad-Eye Moody thought it was a good idea when he taught here."

"Right, but Mad-Eye Moody was also a Death-Eater in disguise. He probably got off on all of us demonstrating the curses and Imperiusing each other." Harry saw Daphne shrug and nod her head in agreement.

Really, what other response could she give?

"Well, at least Professor Snape's one of Dumbledore's most trusted colleagues—"

"For reasons that still remain entirely unknown." Harry interrupted Daphne. She rolled her eyes.

"Just because Dumbledore doesn't keep you all up-to-date about Severus Snape's warm and fuzzy side _doesn't_ mean it _doesn't exist, Harry."_

Harry furrowed his brow. "Well, Dumbledore knows how much Snape annoys me and how badly he treats me _and_ my entire house. The least he could do is throw me a bone—"

"_Potter_!"

(_Oh . . . dammit!_)

Harry turned slowly to see Snape glowering at him.

"Al-though I do understand that you have a _min-i-scule _amount of experience fending off this curse, I will _not_ allow you to sit idly by while I talk, distracting my more . . . _intelligent _students," Snape turned to Daphne, who smirked and bowed her head towards Harry as he rolled his eyes, "from learning. Miss Greengrass . . . _Potter_ . . . Please approach the front of the class."

Harry and Daphne looked at each other. Harry grimaced and Daphne grinned. They walked over toward Snape, who turned to address the audience of students in the Great Hall.

"Miss Greengrass will use the Imperius Curse on Potter—" Snape broke off his talking as the vocal rumblings among the DC grew louder.

"_SI-LENCE_!"

The students' head snapped forward in a collective wave.

Snape's voice reverberated icily around the stone surfaces of the room. "Miss Greengrass will perform the curse, and if Potter is _not_ as worthless as I think he is, he _should_," Harry sneered as Snape's upper lip curled in disgust at him, "be able to resist it." Snape snapped toward Daphne and pointed at her. "Your wand at the ready, Miss Greengrass. You cast the Imperius Curse with the incantation '_Imperio' _and wave your wand like so." Snape demonstrated the wand movement with his hand.

Daphne held up her wand and aimed it at Harry. She gave him a narrowed-eyed, mischievous smile.

(_I don't believe it! She's actually enjoying—_)

"_Imperio_!" Daphne shouted firmly at Harry.

Harry immediately felt light and free, as if he had not a care in the world. He noticed no one but a blurry figure in front of him, the colors on it bright and vivid. His mind was totally empty; there were no thoughts, no words running through it. And then, he heard a voice speak that was not like his own. It was a feminine voice.

"Curtsey for me, Harry Potter."

(_Daphne._)

Harry assumed that there was a good reason to do this. Just as his hands moved out gracefully to his side to hold his imaginary skirt, he stopped.

(_Why are you doing this?_)

Who was that?

(_Why are you doing this, Harry? You don't want to do this . . ._)

"I said _curtsey_ for me, Harry Potter." Daphne's voice was getting louder and more persistent. Harry's arms were out on either side of him, and his knees were about to bend, until . . .

(_No._)

Harry hesitated. He wanted to keep going, because he was pretty sure that giving a little curtsey would be okay.

(_I said bloody hell no, Harry Potter!_)

Harry couldn't help but giggle a bit. The indignant voice in his head sounded an awful lot like Ron.

"I said _curtsey for me, _you arse!"

(_No._)

"No," replied Harry.

"What the _fuck_ do you mean 'no', Potter?!"

"Miss Greengrass, that language is not necessary for this exercise." Harry heard a muffled, slimy-sounding voice from faraway. This new voice continued speaking, "Now, go ahead and lift the curse _off_ of _him_."

Harry heard a vague sigh in the background and a firm "_Finite_ _Incantatem_!"

Suddenly, he was back in the Great Hall. He looked around, and saw Daphne positively fuming at him. He gave her a smile and shrugged his shoulders. He fleetingly thought Daphne looked so pissed off, she would've rammed her wand into his eye.

"_Won_-derful," drawled Snape. "Potter, would you _please_ enlighten the Defense Club as to exactly how you resisted Miss Greengrass' Imperius Curse?"

And, with that, Harry began his explanation to the awestruck student body.

An hour later, the sweat-soaked students exited out of the Great Hall, Snape having put them through their paces with Imperius Curse resistance mental techniques. Little less than half had had any success with resistance.

"Well, to be perfectly honest," Hermione said as she wiped her moist brow, "most of the commands being used were really quite . . . er, innocent. The text said that the more difficult, the more _perverse _or harmful the command, the harder it would be to resist." She looked up at the other students she had been walking with. Ron was ogling her with the oddest expression.

"What?" She asked him, her brow raised.

"You're hot," was all he could manage in a croaked whisper.

"Well, of course I am. We _all_ are. We just fended off an Unforgivable for about an hour . . ."

Ron shook his head. "That's not what I meant." Looking around briefly, he grabbed a hold of Hermione's hand and walked her over to an empty classroom on the second floor.

"Ron?" Hermione demanded. "What are you—"

Before she could complete that thought, Ron kissed her squarely on the lips. Hermione's eyes widened, and then closed.

Harry and Daphne watched them enter the classroom and the door shut behind them.

Harry coughed and laughed and turned to Daphne, his eyes wide with surprise. "Well, you reckon we should put up a 'Do Not Disturb' sign or something?"

Daphne smirked. "Maybe we should sic Mrs. Norris on this hallway."

"That's _evil_, Daphne." Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"Actually, I think our Extendable Ears haven't been used for a while," Daphne's mouth flattened into a grim little smile that Harry thought looked particularly devilish.

His face fell open in horror. "You wouldn't . . ."

Daphne had already fished the Ear out of her bag, and started to dart towards the door. Harry ran after her, desperate to give his friends some privacy . . . but also feeling a tiny bit of curiosity as to what was going on behind the closed door.

"_Daphne_!" Harry said in a rough whisper. Daphne already had the Ear out and Harry could hear the sounds of his two best friends snogging.

"Mmm . . . _Rrr-onnn _. . . "

"Like that, d'you?" More kissing (and_ . . . er, other . . . um, sounds_) was quite audible through the Ear.

"Does Ron do _everything_ so loud?" Daphne remarked with sarcasm.

Harry snorted. "Apparently. _Godric_, Daphne, we shouldn't be doing this!"

"_Hush_!" Daphne swatted Harry's hand away as he tried taking the Ear away from her. They pressed up against the door and the Ear, and heard something about an early 'birthday' present and Ron's shocked spluttering—

"How much_ longer,_ Draco?" Harry and Daphne snapped their necks quickly around.

"Crabbe! It's Crabbe!" Daphne hoarsely whispered. Harry grabbed Daphne's shoulder and pulled her under a tapestry. She fiddled with the Extendable Ear, and suddenly, Harry silently blessed Daphne for her foresight.

"—And I'm telling you to shut the _fuck_ up about this, Crabbe. If you know what's good for you . . . " A pause . . . "Which you probably don't. It's not going to be much longer, all right?"

"I'm getting really tired, Draco. I'm getting tired of doing _this_. _You_ need to find another way, Draco . . . "

"This _is_ the best way, you stupid mouth-breather! Sweet Merlin's _Tits_, I'm doing something huge, and I can't rely on someone who's got the brains and bollocks of a damn flobberworm!"

Daphne looked shocked as she continued to hold up the Ear. "Crabbe never _ever_ talks back to Malfoy. This must be something really bad, to have crawled up Crabbe's arse like that—"

"Shh! Did you hear something?" they heard Malfoy say. Harry's hand clamped over Daphne's mouth; he could barely hear her breathing. All time seemed to have stilled. Harry thought they had been Petrified, but he could feel Daphne's quickening heartbeat on his upper arm as he squished closer to her. The light shining underneath the tapestry showed Harry that footsteps were approaching them. The moving shadows shortened . . .

"_Ron_! That tickles!" Harry's back straightened right up as he heard Hermione giggling.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger." Harry nearly did a double take at Ron's near-perfect impression of Snape's voice. Both he and Daphne looked at each other, mouthing "Snape?"

Daphne bit her lip, and leaned in to Harry, whispering, "I guess she's got herself a kink for our Defense teacher, too." Harry made a retching gesture with his face.

Draco sneered. "It's just the Mudblood and Weasel shagging or something. I guess Mudblood Granger's finally let Weasley stick his wand all the way up her foul—"

Positively outraged on his best friends' behalf, Harry nearly ran out from behind the protective field of the tapestry to beat Malfoy and Crabbe up for their nasty words, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and a breath on his ear. "What do you think you're doing? They'll see you and know we've been eavesdropping."

Calming himself down, Harry fell back into Daphne. He felt her putting her hand on his waist, grabbing a handful of his jumper.

"Daphne? What're you . . ." Harry started.

"Making sure you _don't_ give us up!" Daphne replied. He felt her breath quicken behind him. Turning back around to where they knew Malfoy and Crabbe were, Harry listened for any further conversation. It sounded like they were continuing to swear and curse at each other while walking away toward the staircases. Daphne leaned forward, continuing to hold the Extendable Ear in one hand and Harry's jumper in the other.

"I think they're gone, Harry."

Harry nodded, but looked down. "Er, Daphne."

"What?"

"You still, um—" Harry sheepishly pointed at his jumper and her grasp on it. Daphne pulled away like she had been nastily shocked, her face an emotionless mask. Harry had no idea what was going on in her head.

"Er, Daphne?"

"I-I should probably get back to Slytherin, Harry." She looked at him rather oddly, peering at him with narrowed eyes. She regarded him cautiously. Daphne didn't move; she remained standing, looking at Harry with her mouth slightly open. Almost as if reconsidering what she wanted to say, she closed her mouth quickly, and departed toward the stairs.

"Harry," Daphne said, turning around just as the staircase she needed twisted around to float toward the direction she needed to go, "I'll keep my eye out on Malfoy and Crabbe. I'll bet you that Malfoy's got Goyle doing his bidding too." Daphne stopped talking, but continued to look at Harry. Nodding with finality, she turned and started down the stairs.

Harry let Daphne be, although he was confused about her abrupt changes in moods over the last thirty minutes. Looking at the classroom that he knew was currently occupied by his two best friends, Harry let out a huge breath, ran his hands through his hair, and contemplated the many possible reasons why Crabbe was currently pissed off at Malfoy.

* * *

"Ron," Hermione asked him as he pulled her into the classroom. "What are you—"

Ron couldn't take it anymore. Watching Hermione face aglow with the exertion of the DC meeting, wiping the sweat off of her blushing brow, and pulling her thick hair off of her shoulders, revealing her long, slender neck . . . he was _done in_!

He kissed her.

Sure, he had interrupted her train of thought.

But he rather thought she wouldn't mind.

Ron resisted laughing against her lips as she circled his neck with her arms, kissing him back with that wonderful Hermione Granger enthusiasm that she usually reserved for complicated essays and crazy mysteries. They were now fully inside the classroom. He performed a Locking Charm on the door and they turned around and around in small circles, looking for a surface upon which they could snog each other into happy oblivion.

Skillfully keeping his lips firmly attached to Hermione's, Ron pushed away some things on the surface of the desk at the front of the classroom. He gently lifted Hermione on top of the wood.

"Mmm . . . hee . . . _Rrr-onnn,_" Hermione giggled. Ron smiled, moving across her cheek. He lingered on the fleshy part of her earlobe, and he refrained from pumping his fist in the air as she made awesome little gasping and sighing noises. He went for broke, and sucked gently on the spot just beneath her ear.

"Like that d'you?"

"_Yesss. . . ._" For a fleeting moment, Ron wondered if the brilliant, bushy-haired girl learned Parseltongue, but noting her hands were balled up in little fists on his jumper and her legs were rubbing up against his thigh, he could only conjecture that he was driving her completely mental . . . in a _great_ way.

Hermione moved her hands further beneath his robes, finding the bottom edge of his jumper. She slowly moved her hands underneath his clothing, and Ron nearly fell backwards; her small, cool hands were touching his stomach.

(_Oh beautiful sweet Godric Effin' Gryffindor! If only she moved her hand a bit lower . . ._)

(_Shut up, you pervert!_)

He sighed in disappointment as she broke away from him, staring at him with dark and glassy eyes. Ron watched as she bit her lip.

"What?" he asked worried. "Did I do something wrong?" His breathing increased with anxiety, but relaxed as Hermione shook her bushy hair.

"Well, I was sort of thinking about giving you _part_ of your birthday present early," she said softly. Hermione rubbed at the collar of her oxford shirt and bit her lip.

Ron laughed. "You have it with you, then? Waiting for the perfect opportunity, I reckon."

She giggled, her fingers pressed against her mouth. "There's actually _two_ things I wanted to give you, Ron, and I was waiting to get you alone on your special day, but," Hermione shrugged, "maybe, well, it's okay to _show_ you what they are. Now." She spoke softly, but with a slightly suggestive tone that Ron rarely heard, unless they were together and alone.

"Hermione Jean Granger, I can officially say I'm totally lost," Ron smirked.

"H-honestly, Ronald," she said, with a cheeky wink and nervous breath. She closed her eyes and took two deep breaths. And Ron watched her next moves, his eyes wide and his ears burning bright red.

Hermione had brought her shaky fingers to her chest and undid the first button of her blouse.

"Wh-wh . . . er, _wait_!" Ron could practically hear his crotch protesting his interruption. "What're you _doing_?"

"I'm . . . er, 'unwrapping' your gift, Ron." Hermione said.

"Y-y-you don't mean . . . but, Hermione . . . _your chest_!" Ron gestured wildly at her upper body. He was fairly certain that he was now the color of an over-ripe beefsteak tomato.

"And, like I said, I've thought long _and_ hard," Ron couldn't believe that Hermione actually snickered at her little double entendre, "long and _very_ hard—" her eyes shifted to his crotch and she suppressed another laugh, "about this, and I _want_ you to see them. You've never seen girls' breasts before, have you Ron?" She was giving him the most inscrutable look.

Ron could only gape at her like a fish.

(_Say no and you want to see them! Say no and you want to see them!_)

(_What are you _doing_, you eejit? Go for it Weasley!_)

(_BoobsBosomsBreastsBoobsBosomsBreastsBoobsBosomsBreasts. . . ._)

"Oh-h, um," Hermione said with a mild shrug and sheepish expression, "we don't have to if you don't want to . . . " she lowered her eyes.

"I want to," Ron said hoarsely. He blurted it out without even thinking about his words.

His brain shut down completely. His mouth dried out.

He was about to see boobs.

He was about to see Hermione's boobs.

He was about to touch . . .

Ron watched transfixed as Hermione' drew in a breath, and her fingers moved down her blouse.

One button.

Two buttons.

Three buttons.

Four . . .

She gave a little shimmy of her shoulders and let her shirt fall away. Ron marveled at the revelation of the skin on the upper part of her chest, and he reached out with a trembling hand to touch her collarbone.

"S-sorry," he stuttered, almost withdrawing his hands.

"It feels nice."

He looked at Hermione, who was staring at him with a small smile. Ron then noticed the beige straps around her shoulders, and he slowly, gently hooked his fingers around them.

Ron coughed and swallowed a great lump that had suddenly grown in his throat. "Um . . . er, can — _may_ I?" Ron looked at her with an expression of concern mixed with curiosity. He gently tugged on the strap.

Hermione smiled sweetly at him . . . and nodded.

Letting out a long breath, Ron pulled one strap down, and then followed with the other strap. They were falling down her upper arms, stopping right where they attached to two cups made of fabric, which of course were holding—

(_Oh. My. Godric._)

How the hell should he proceed? Slowly? Cherishing every moment he got to look upon her awesome, amazing 'Orbs of Fun'? Or should he rip off her bra in a fit of passion and ravish her until both of them—

"_Ron_." Hermione's whisper brought him back into reality. "Do you want me to finish, or do you want to continue?"

Ron looked at her. Creasing his brow in determination, Ron breathed in and breathed out, raised his hands and brought them around to her back, where he reckoned the clasp was. Fumbling with it for a few moments—

"Push together, then pull apart, Ron," Hermione said with a nervously giddy smile.

"I think I've got it," Ron mumbled, his tongue between his teeth as he fussed about with the foreign article of clothing. . . .

Ron grinned, partly in satisfaction, mostly in surprised shock, as he felt the tight elastic loosen, and the cups that were holding TheTwoGreatestThingsEverCreated floated up and away from Hermione's body.

Ron heard Hermione's breath hitch. "You're okay, Hermione?"

She smiled and nodded slowly and deliberately. "Ron, if I sigh or breathe funny, I guarantee you it's because I'm _very _okay."

Ron nodded, and proceeded to remove the last remaining article of clothing covering her—

(_Breasts._)

(_Hermione's breasts._)

Ron flung the bra on to the ground, and admired his . . . Hermione. He looked between her now-naked chest and her face. He saw her nose was wrinkled and her eyes shut very tightly. Immediately, Ron's hands flew up to her face.

"Hey," he said gently, rubbing her face with his hand. "You okay?" Hermione opened her eyes and looked at him, with a small amount of disbelief. To Ron's relief, she looked . . . happy. Her tense face slowly relaxed before his very eyes.

"Ron, go on. Touch them." When he just stood there, like a brick wall, hands still cupping her face, she teasingly rolled her eyes, "I know you want to."

She grasped his bigger hands in her smaller ones, and guided them down to the space between them. Ron could only let her; he was completely at a loss of ability to think, see, talk, hear, or do anything in a coherently human manner.

At least Hermione knew this.

His eyes followed his hands as she placed them on the two mounds of flesh. As he touched her soft skin, he let out a groan; he was touching her, actually touching her without clothing . . . without barriers . . . without _anything!_ It was just his hands and . . .

(_OhSweetWonderfulSparklyFuckingMerlin!!_)

Ron moved his hands over them, gently exploring, teasing, touching any little bit that he could. It was inexpert, with no real rhythm or pattern, and he started silently wishing he'd asked his older brothers for pointers or hints about how one goes about feeling a girl up. Well, Bill or Charlie, at least. Not Fred or George . . . or Percy the Prat.

Ron was fairly certain Percy didn't even know what a tit was.

Ron groaned.

(_Weasley! Dammit! This is no time to think about your family!_)

Ron shook his head.

(_Idiot!_)

Looking at Hermione's face, she _really_ didn't seem to mind his amateur ministrations too much. Although, for one quick moment, his fingers ghosted too close to her underarms . . .

"_Ron_! That tickles!" Hermione let out a tinkly laugh.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger." Ron wriggled his eyebrows. Although at first he had been a bit squicked when Hermione admitted a small ("Miniscule, Ronald!") fascination with their ex-Potions Master, Ron had started working on perfecting his most "Snape-like" voice to use sometimes during their more private moments. He loved how flushed and annoyingly embarrassed she would get whenever he'd tease her like that.

"Oh! Stop that," Hermione said with a light giggle. Ron smiled and leaned forward, meeting her lips, his hands continuing to work on her chest.

He found through a bit of practice that he could elicit many different reactions from Hermione simply by focusing on one particular area with his thumbs, changing speed, pressure, and the like. Ron couldn't remember the last time his hands had _had_ so much fun.

(_Hey, Weasley . . . so your hands are nice and all . . . what about your mouth?_)

(_Oh! Merlin!_)

And Ron's crotch gave a mighty twitch.

"Um, Hermione," Ron started nervously, "would it be all right if I tried something. I mean, since we're already doing _this_." He nodded toward his randy hands, now moving in small cirlcles.

Hermione, with half-lidded eyes and flushed face, could only nod.

Biting his lip, Ron manned up . . . and dove his head forward, replacing his hands with his mouth.

(_MerlinMerlinMerlinMerlin. . . _)

Hermione squeaked, gasped and squirmed all at once and threaded her fingers through his red hair and Ron thought it was the most brilliant thing ever and he grasped her around the waist and brought her chest even closer to his head and he made sure that he spread his love and attention in equal amounts to both sides of wonderful Hermione-bosomness.

Later, that night, after Ron and Hermione said the gloopiest of goodnights to each other on the Gryffindor dormitory staircase, and after Ron took the _greatest_ shower of his entire life (he made _damn _sure he cast the Muffliato Charm . . . just to be on the safe side), he returned to his bed, only to be confronted by the smirking faces of his other dorm-mates.

"Yeah, you've got something you want to say, then?" Ron tried desperately to sound all indignant and annoyed, but he figured it was all for naught, as his huge, goofy grin simply couldn't and wouldn't go away.

"Ya got the smile of a bloke's that's been shagged 'til he pissed and shat rainbows." Seamus Finnegan smiled smugly.

Harry smacked himself in the head. "_Shit_, Weasley! She's like my sister. I don't want to know—"

"Yeah . . . I know I don't want to think about Ron doing it at all," Neville Longbottom contributed.

"Hear hear!" Dean Thomas exclaimed.

"_Hey_! Thanks for that, Nev," Ron said sarcastically. "Look, it isn't like _that_! We didn't shag or anything."

"So," Dean Thomas started, "I'll bet four Galleons that you felt Granger up." Dean brought his hands to his chest.

"I'll see that an' raise ya a week of bloody Defense essays tha' Weasley used hands and mouth . . . whaddya say Potter?"

Ron groaned and covered his face with his pillows. "Shut it! Leave Harry outta this. We're his _best_ _friends_!"

"I'll take it, and raise you all whatever's inside my trunk," Harry said, scratching at his chin, "that he felt her up, used hands and mouth, _and_ dirty talked her by imitating Snape."

Two livid blue eyes looked up over the pillow covering Ron's face, only to see the smirking, eyebrow-waggling face of his bespectacled best friend.

Ron tore off of his bed, shouting the various methods of how he would kill Harry. Armed with pillows, he chased down and bellowed at Harry, Dean, Seamus and Neville as they ran laughing from the ferocious redhead, hopping from bed to bed, feathers and quilts and cushions flying to and fro.

* * *

Their first Apparition lesson came and went, and with it, further confirmation that Malfoy was definitely up to something, something that involved Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts.

"Hermione," Harry said in exasperation, hitting the table on each syllable for emphasis, "for the last time, Malfoy told them to keep being a lookout and that it wasn't any of their business what he was doing."

"_O__kay_," Hermione said in annoyance. "Seriously, Harry, there's no need for that attitude." Hermione waved her wand to perform Flitwick's Slickening Charm, meant to cause the little wooden boxes on the desks in front of them to slide right off. Hermione had got far enough in the lesson to charm her box to fly off the desk, and would then _Accio_ it right back to her hands.

Harry and Ron had managed to Slicken their boxes to hit Flitwick's head . . . twice.

"It was similar to the conversation that Daphne and I heard after that DC meeting." Harry reckoned that neither Ron nor Hermione was really paying attention to him, due to the obscene amount of footsie being played under the table. Harry sighed as his friends were once again distracted and his thoughts mingled and mixed between the three most common subjects that seemed to plague him during the most inopportune moments: Malfoy's probable schemes, Ginny's love life, and Slughorn's Horcruxes.

Harry found Ron and Hermione acted fine when it came to the talk about the Horcruxes, since Hermione — and, of course, Ron, who seemed to have been in the most agreeable of moods towards Hermione over the last few days — determined it was the most important of all of Harry's current tasks. It was the one given to him by Professor Dumbledore, after all.

"I _know_, Hermione, but how in the name of Merlin am I supposed to get it from him? He hasn't scheduled any more Slug Club parties and every time I go up to talk to him, he runs off." Not even Harry's cheeky answer to Slughorn's poison antidote lesson brought Harry closer to getting Slughorn's actual memory about Tom Riddle and Horcruxes; the Potions teacher had run off faster than one could say "bezoar".

Neither Ron nor Hermione seemed to be particularly concerned when it came to Malfoy. "Harry," Ron said, fairly reasonably, "as much as I'd like to know what's going on with Malfoy, we've told Dumbledore and my dad, and surely they're looking into it. Dad's investigating outside of Hogwarts, and Dumbledore's investigating _inside_ Hogwarts—"

"Well, it's obvious Malfoy brought something, or is repairing something in the school, or else why would he need lookouts," Harry said, more to himself as he watched Ron and Hermione giggling and staring at each other and looking like they were having a war of feet under the desk . . . which, in fact, they were. Harry rolled his eyes.

And finally, there was the Ginny problem. He found himself staring at her at the most inopportune moments, regardless of whether she was hanging out with Dean Thomas or not. He watched her whenever the Quidditch team had their practice. He watched her as she ate in the Great Hall. He watched her while Ron and Hermione were busy distracting each other in the common room in the evening.

Harry found that it was those times when Ron and Hermione were particularly busy with each other, as happy as he was for his two best friends, that made him rather sad in thinking about the trajectory of his love life. Sure, there had been Cho Chang . . . for, like, two seconds last year. Parvati Patil had been his date to the Yule Ball in fourth year, but of course there hadn't been anything to come out of it. Hermione had said he had never been more fanciable now, and yet, here he was: Harry Potter, the Boy Who was Pants at Love.

Harry did have to wonder what it was about his predilection for girls that were clearly not available. Cho Chang . . . Ginny Weasley . . . Was it always going to be like this for him? He seemed to always be one step behind a potential relationship. If he had _just noticed_ Ginny sooner, before she had started hanging out with Dean, before he had been so wrapped up with Cho . . .

Harry continued to watch his two best friends in the entire world, currently immersed in their own private Hogwarts. Ron stared dumbly at Hermione, who, for her part, was busy writing out her Arithmancy homework. Every once in a while, she'd look up at Ron when his feet touched her leg and she'd give him a sweet, lopsided grin. Every once in a while, Harry would have to cough to break through the little lovers' sphere of attention.

"Er, Ron, that's _my _leg."

"Wha'? _Oh_! Merlin, Harry, s-sorry." Ron said, crimson spreading all over his face. Hermione chuckled into her fingers. "Like that, do you?" Ron smiled at her. Harry mimed chucking up his dinner, and vaguely, he wondered if his interest in all things Malfoy might be connected to the fact that he was not currently preoccupied with matters of the heart.

As he thought this, a swell of voices rose from the other side of the common room. Looking over, he saw Ginny Weasley get up and storm away from a frustrated-looking Dean Thomas.

Ron looked over. "Is Thomas giving Gin trouble?" Despite the gleeful feeling building in his chest, Harry practically quelled at the dark look on his friend's face. Hermione hastened a hand on his arm, and looked between him and Harry.

"Just between us," Hermione said, directing her words to Harry, for reasons that were completely unknown to him, "Dean and Ginny have been fighting a lot more since the holidays."

"_Fighting?_ Has Dean laid a finger on her?" Ron asked in a harsh whisper. "I'll _kill_ 'im."

"Ron, don't be ridiculous!" Hermione scolded. "You know Dean would never do that. They've just been arguing more, that's all." Hermione sat back, "I think they might be growing apart, personally."

(_Hello!_)

"Er, why do you say that?" Harry asked, hoping desperately Hermione couldn't hear the eagerness in his voice.

"Oh, well," Hermione nonchalantly waved her hand, "I just say that because Ginny and Dean's relationship's been getting a bit testier and testier. You can sense when relationships are deteriorating."

"Er, you can?" Harry looked over at Ron, whose freckled face seemed to have blanched; any trace of color was non-existent. He knew instantly that Ron was thinking that his relationship with Hermione was going south as well, and maybe he had missed something. "H-how, er, do you know when a relationship goes bad?"

Hermione looked at Ron with such a sweet, earnest expression, Harry couldn't help but smile. "Ron, you really don't have anything to worry about, okay? We're fine. I promise you."

Harry looked over at Ron, who sighed and smiled in relief. To his surprise, Harry found himself doing the same thing.

* * *

Daphne Greengrass desperately needed to find Professor Snape. She had just hit a snag in her Defense Against the Dark Arts assignment — an extensive essay of the theoretical approaches to shield casting on Unforgivable Curses and Semi-Unforgivable Curses, when she halted just outside Professor Snape's office.

She could hear mumbling just inside the room, behind the closed door. She froze just before she knocked on the door; instead, Daphne reached into her bag and pulled out the trusty Extendable Ear. Through the device, she could hear the Professor's smooth tones with crystalline clarity, as he discussed some unknown topic with . . .

"Albus, I fail to understand why you simply will not tell me—"

"Severus," Daphne heard Dumbledore speak, "there are times when you can be as stubborn as Harry himself." Snape grunted in indignation. "There is a charming Muggle saying that best describes this very situation — 'Do not put all your eggs into one basket'. That is, perhaps, the most appropriate reasoning I can give on the matter."

Daphne heard a rustling in the room. "I give up. I'll do as you ask, _Head_-master, and you can continue to keep me in the dark. But . . . I am _not_ happy about this."

Dumbledore chuckled. "So much like Miss Greengrass, Severus. So much like her. She even said something similar to me during the summer."

Daphne perked up immediately at the sound of her name.

"Well, I am _not_ surprised. What _else_ did you expect her to do when you asked her to _spy_ on her own house?"

"My intention in giving Miss Greengrass her assignment was to help her understand that, even in Slytherin, she wasn't alone. Perhaps I was misguided, trying to help her so, but I admit I have a deep, personal desire to secure Miss Greengrass' welfare and future in the wizarding world."

Daphne's brow creased.

(_The hell does he mean by "personal desire"?_)

"Could you at least en-ligh-ten _me_ as to _that_ particular reason? I will grant you she's a smart, _book_-oriented student, but I've _seen_ no remarkable wand work from her in Defense. She is _not_ related to you. She has _no_ special or unique powers. She is _not_ the subject of some ancient prophecy . . ."

Daphne winced at the severity of Professor Snape's tone. She could hear Dumbledore clear his throat.

"Severus, I shall do my best to justify my . . . well, my intervention in Miss Greengrass' life."

Dumbledore cleared his throat just before he began speaking.

"I first encountered Miss Greengrass in the Muggle foster care system, I was alarmed by reports of her behavior in her foster home placements. Her magical powers were manifesting at an early age, much of which could probably be attributed to various placement changes and the emotional instability that these changes caused. This is purely my speculation, as Daphne hasn't ever seen an Emotional Healer for these issues. She has seen Muggle child therapists, and, although she changed them more frequently than she changed foster homes, they seem to have helped her."

Daphne felt her throat dry up and her breathing grow shaky. She leaned in, trying to push any thoughts out of her head, desperate to hear more of the conversation between the Headmaster and Professor Snape.

"Her mother died after having chosen a life of Muggle substances and drink, and left her in the care of the state. I've made some efforts trying to find who her father was; unfortunately, my investigations have reached an impasse." Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Her unpredictable emotional state in early childhood, coupled with her multiple placements, allowed Daphne a unique, but frightening, opportunity to start using her magic on other children and people that lived with her in her home. She would harm others when she felt strong surges of anger or other powerful, but negative, emotions . . ." There was a pause, and Daphne's heart beat a painful, fast tattoo.

(_I was like that? Why didn't anyone tell me?_)

"Really, Albus. You make her sound rather like—"

"I _know_, Severus . . . I know all too well who this sounds like. _That_ is what drew me to her in the first place. But, the deeper I looked into Daphne's life, the more I could see the differences between her and Tom. Where Tom Riddle could not feel love for another human and could cause only pain and suffering, Daphne's anger and inflictions of pain and harm toward others came out of quick, severe emotional impulses that she had not been able to control. She would harm, and she would harm badly," Dumbledore paused once again, "but once you took her out of her emotional situation, her next victim would only be herself."

The sad tones of Dumbledore's own voice didn't register to Daphne, even as he continued to talk. "Daphne Greengrass would make herself ill, unable to keep nourishment down. She would spend one, even two days foregoing basic necessities because she wanted nothing more than to punish herself. She would run away as well, never telling people where she would go. She managed to make it back to the nearest Child Protective Service office or back to her foster home after a few days." Daphne could hear Dumbledore sigh, a sound that weighed heavily on her body as she remembered her darker days. "Luckily for us, I found out about her and, thanks to a Muggle Affairs liaison, I was able to provide her with boardroom with Miss Elvira Proctor, a Squib foster mother."

"Surely, you don't think Miss Greengrass could become another Dark Lord . . . or a Dark Mistress, I suppose?" Professor Snape asked the Headmaster bluntly.

Daphne furrowed her brow.

(_What the hell does any of this have to do with me? Whose this "Tom Riddle"? Why would I become some Dark—_)

"Severus, such a thought never crossed my mind, for I saw in Daphne the ability to feel remorse. Such an emotion is foreign to Tom Riddle. And yet, I suppose I feel like I have only myself to blame, well, for the way Tom turned out. When he attended school here, I foolishly thought that I could frighten him, that I could _scare_ him in order to show him the right path. However, since that time, I have come to realize and understand a fundamental truth."

"Yes, Al-_bus_?" asked Snape, with a hint of curiosity.

"The one thing missing from Tom's life was the ability to love. To _love_, Severus, allows human beings to accomplish truly _great_ _things_ . . . miracles, even. I trust I do not need to remind you of that."

Daphne heard no response from the former Potions instructor. She did, however, hear a small, sad chuckle come from Dumbledore.

"Perhaps it was the path my own life took that prevented me from seeing that love could conquer many, many demons." There was a long pause and Daphne thought vaguely that Dumbledore gave a small sniff. "However, I saw this glimmer of promise because of Daphne's ability to recognize the wrongs she committed — even if she couldn't stop herself from her own actions — and because she felt remorse _and_ she would confess her wrongdoings to those she hurt.

"And so, all the hope I had lost when Tom Riddle _became_ Lord Voldemort suddenly came back to me in full force—"

Daphne couldn't move. Her hand reached out to the door that separated her from the two men talking about how she had been so similar to . . . to . . .

(_Lord Voldemort?_)

The weight of a thousand lead Bludgers fell into her guts. She stifled a cry.

(_Voldemort? I'm . . . I'm like . . ._)

(_No._)

Daphne's brain kept screaming and screaming at her.

(_I'm . . . _)

(_Voldemort._)

(_No . . . no, I'm not. I'm Daphne Greengrass . . ._)

(_And_ _you're_ _like Voldemort . . ._)

She'd heard enough. Covering her mouth to make sure she didn't lose her dinner all over the stone floor, Daphne backed away from the door, making sure that there was no trace that she had been listening to the conversation. She ran back . . . she ran away . . . to the Slytherin common room . . . to the girls' dormitory . . . and to the bathroom so she could lock herself away in the showers and cry . . . and cry . . . and cry.


	25. Chapter 24: The Uncaring Snake

**A/N: **I own nothing. Thanks so much to stella8h8chang for the input. Rated T for very strong language.

* * *

**Chapter 24: The Uncaring Snake**

"Where's Daphne been?" Ron asked the others. They looked down at the Slytherin table, the part closest to the doors to the Great Hall. For all of last week, they had noticed that Daphne Greengrass hadn't been down to dinner.

In fact, Ron realized, Daphne hadn't been down to many of the breakfasts or lunches either.

The only time they'd seen Daphne was during classes, and she seemed diminished and invisible. There were no sarcastic little comments anymore, or even her trademark smirk.

Instead, there was simply nothing.

"D'you think she's, like, sad about something?" Ron pressed his friends.

Hermione's brow furrowed, as she thought of what could possibly be wrong with their Slytherin friend.

"Well, she might be depressed. Daphne's always had very volatile emotions, and maybe something happened—"

Ron didn't hear Hermione finish her thought. He had just spotted Michael Corner entering the Great Hall. Michael apparently was thinking along similar lines as Ron, because as he saw the red-head approach, he asked him, "Have you seen Daphne?" at the exact same time as Ron asked him the same question. Both boys chuckled a bit.

"Honestly, Weas- . . . I mean, Ron, I haven't really seen her for about a week except for classes. It seems like she's been avoiding me. I've sent her messages, owls, even tried kidnapping her after classes — and she runs off, not saying anything at all! Hell, I tried waylaying Bulstrode and asked her for her help. She just looked at me like I was hippogriff dung. Not sure if it's me or—"

Ron shrugged. "With Daphne, you never know. She's can be a bit testy, Corner—"

"Michael. Call me Michael," he responded, a bit overly assertive for Ron's liking.

"Er, fine. _Michael_. You two were getting along all right?"

Ron watched as Michael's face fluttered between a frown and a slight smile. "Well, I thought so. I dunno . . . maybe I scared her off or something. Look, I'll let you know if she comes and finds me or anything."

Ron nodded with finality and turned. He stopped as _something_ seized him . . . a sort of protective, big-brother emotional response to this git that had once dated Ginny and was now looking to sink his meat hooks into Daphne.

"Michael, do you like her?'

Michael turned and looked at him with a cautious expression. "I do. Why's it your business?"

Ron chewed on his bottom lip for a few moments before speaking.

"Daphne's my friend — hell, I think of her as a sister. So does my family. Things went bad with you and Ginny, and I didn't give you my threatening 'big brother' speech back then, so I'm giving it to you now. Do you really like her?"

Ron watched, with great satisfaction, as Michael Corner gulped nervously. "Ron," the other boy started shakily, "I really like her a lot. You might not believe it, but I do. I've learned from my mistakes in, er . . ." Michael looked at Ron guardedly. "There's just something about Daphne, I dunno . . . she's different. She says what's on her mind. She's funny as hell and smart and totally crazy about music, especially Muggle music which is odd, given she's from Slytherin . . ." Michael trailed off as he watched Ron snicker. The Gryffindor patted him on the upper arm.

"You've also caught her habit of speaking in run-on sentences." Ron nodded and turned his eyes to the ground with a small smile. "All right, I believe you. You like her, you _really_ like her." Ron turned around to walk back to the Gryffindor table. "If you see her first, tell her to come find Harry, Hermione and me. I'll tell her to talk to you if I see her, okay?"

Michael nodded in agreement.

* * *

She looked out the window nearest her bed. She was supposed to meet up with Colin Creevey after dinner so they could check on her insurance policy and their new source of income. Daphne closed her eyes, wrapping her arms tighter around her legs, which were pressed firmly up against her Weasley-jumpered chest.

Over the last week, Daphne's brain had been playing snippets of the conversation between Professor Snape and Dumbledore in her head. She could feel their words and their voices assaulting her brain like a cursed Bludger.

("_I know, Severus . . . I know all too well who this sounds like_ . . .")

(_Voldemort._)

("_Surely, you didn't think Miss Greengrass could become another Dark Lord_—")

(_The answer to that is of _course_ he did._)

(" . . . _All the hope I had lost when Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort. . ._")

(_Tom became Voldemort._)

(_And what about me? Who do I become now?_)

Daphne thought back to her conversation with the Headmaster at the Burrow that summer. His voice had been so filled with regret, with the sorrowful sounds of loss and hurt that his most vague statements seemed to have been filled with a far deeper meaning.

("_Daphne, when I first met you in Miss Proctor's home, you reminded me of a boy that I used to know a long, long time before you were born_ . . .")

(_Well, now you know, don't you? He thought you were the second coming of Voldemort!_)

_(You yourself said there was a very good reason that you were sorted into Slytherin._)

Daphne put her head on her knees. She thought through her decisions over the last two years since Cedric Diggory died, motivated by an infatuation with a boy who understood a thing or two about growing up without a proper family. But, was that all? Did this mere crush on Harry Potter push her to join the DA, to fight in the Ministry?

(_Sure, what else could it have been, Little Miss _Mini-Riddle)

Daphne swallowed the bile threatening to push out of her throat, bile that contaminated her, filled her like all the other shit and swill that she was made of.

(_Like Voldemort . . ._)

(_Like Riddle . . ._)

(_Like a _Slytherin.)

She had hoped by wearing the cozy Weasley jumper, something so comfortable and warm would make her feel better, more human, less dirty. She had wrapped herself in it for days, wearing it under a tightly closed cloak to class and whenever she would venture out of the dorm room for various needs and sustenance. She had lived on the streets every once in a while when she had been in foster care; she was used to it. She could live like that here, at Hogwarts, where she could merely sneak food and drink and drift off to class like she was a ghost, and not care and not think and not feel--

(_Michael . . ._)

(_So what?_)

Her eyes drifted to her desk, at the pile of notes, some of which were in Michael Corner's slanted, masculine handwriting, and other letters that were in Ron's, Harry's and Hermione's as well. Daphne's chin trembled as she felt the corner of them. Each of Michael's notes asked her to see him, to meet him in a classroom, at some time, on some day. He had pulled her away during the one Arithmancy lesson she had managed to make it to last week. He had asked her what was wrong, why wasn't she talking to him, and implored her to go see Madam Pomfrey. Daphne had wordlessly nodded and walked away. She could hear him calling out behind her, but she didn't turn around.

He would eventually get tired and move on.

Hermione's, Ron's and Harry's notes all said similar things. Hermione had told her that she really must see Madam Pomfrey, especially if she was missing classes. Ron had wanted to make sure she was all right, and that he wanted to meet her down in the kitchens for a snack. Harry--

(_Why the fuck would he want to hang out . . . be with . . . someone like you? Knowing who you remind people of?_)

She tugged at her jumper, and immediately, the memories of her first Weasley family Christmas came back to her: Ron smacking her playfully on the head with her gift, his parents dancing to her music, Ron's teasing from Fred and George, Harry apologizing for the remnants of his own prejudices . . .

But he was right.

They — all of them — had been right all along.

To _hate_ her.

To see her and be suspicious.

To ignore her.

To distrust her.

She was nothing but an evil, blackmailing, lying little slag.

Sex and blackmail and bribery . . . that was all she could do.

Well, not all.

Three days ago, she had sat behind a piece of blank parchment, swirling her wand about in circles, trying to create a Dual-Dialogue Charm with which to communicate with Draco Malfoy. After the fifth . . . the eighth . . . the _twentieth_ failed attempt to make her hand assign a symbol for Malfoy's name, she'd shoved her parchment and quill far away from her and looked at it like it was the most disgusting thing she'd ever seen.

Two days ago, she had made her second trip to the Owlery, with a note in her handwriting asking Malfoy to meet her in the Slytherin common room that evening.

(_I mean, why not follow in your Dark Lord's footsteps?_)

(_You were always an impulsive little bitch._)

She'd been able to skulk and hide enough to avoid the clusters of students milling around between classes, the occasional appearance of teachers and prefects telling students to stop dawdling and go to class, or the library, or wherever students went to spend their free hours.

(_Like plotting the betrayal of their best friends to the closest Death Eater connection in school!_)

She had scurried quickly toward the Owlery as soon as she got outside, ducking behind stone walls or other surfaces and trees and rocks so she wouldn't be seen. Daphne had arrived, numb and cold, and she felt her arm rise up, signaling to the nearest available school owl.

A medium-sized tawny owl had swooped down to the perch in front of her. Daphne had given it a quick pat, and read over her note, again, for the hundredth time . . .

"**_D.M.--_**_**meet me at half-past twelve o'clock in our common room. Information about H.P."**_

The parchment the words were written on was so wrinkled, so creased with the numerous times Daphne had touched it and read it. Each time, her heart had raced, and she'd stopped breathing and her stomach had churned desperately.

(_So this is the way we betray our friends, huh Greengrass?_)

The owl had hooted, and the sound had startled her. She had dropped the parchment, and it had fallen to the floor, which was encrusted with thousands of bird droppings.

Shaking, she had picked it up . . . and she had seen the jumper she was wearing.

Daphne had clutched at her head as images of red hair and blue eyes — hating her, helping her, angry with her, laughing with her — sped through her mind with all the force of a giant running into a mountain.

(_What would he think?_)

(_What would he do? Ron would _never betray them.)

(_Ron would _hate_ anyone that did what you're about to do, Greengrass._)

He would tell his family not to have anything to do with her anymore, and Harry and Hermione would reject her too.

They would turn their backs on her, never having anything to do with her again.

Daphne had been as certain of that as the Chudley Cannons finishing at the bottom of the Quidditch standings.

At that moment, Daphne _knew_ that she couldn't handle that; she couldn't handle losing the only real friends she had made at Hogwarts.

Ron, Harry and Hermione still wanted to be there for her. They wanted to talk to her. They were worried about her . . . even when she was avoiding them . . . even when she did not want their friendship, except. . . .

Except that she did.

She wanted their friendship desperately.

Because it meant she _was_ wanted. She _belonged._

Daphne had _Incendioed_ the note, and walked out of the Owlery. She'd found a spot on the grass, and slid down the stone wall, sitting for ages and ages and feeling the dampness of the grass soak through her skirt and knickers. . . .

Returning to her immediate present, Daphne shuffled to the edge of her bed and allowed her bare feet to touch the floor. Clasping the cloak close to her body and sliding her feet into her trainers, she started to make her way toward the Room of Requirement to meet Colin Creevey.

* * *

"Madam Pomfrey," Hermione started, nervously wringing his hands. She, along with Harry and Ron, had gone up to the Hospital Wing after dinner, to talk about their "Daphne Dilemma".

"She's our friend, and it seems like she's having some problems. We're not sure what to do, except to let you know."

Pomfrey sighed. "I'll see what I can do, Miss Granger. You're not the first to ask about her."

The trio looked at each other. "Michael Corner?" they asked in unison.

Madam Pomfrey raised her eyebrows. "Well, him, and Mr. Zabini _and_ Miss Weasley were asking about her as well. Of course, Mr. Zabini," Pomfrey rolled her eyes, "was a bit _testier_ asking me for my help." She got up from her desk. "I can tell you _no_ _one_ gets help from me that insults the quality of care you students receive at Hogwarts." Pomfrey gave them all stern looks, and then relaxed. "I will see what I can do, you three, but if she doesn't want to talk about it, I cannot force her. She's of age in our world, and if she _is_ depressed and needs someone to talk to, she has to be ready to talk about it. The only thing that you can do is let her know that you'll be there for her, and that she does have friends."

Harry looked over at Ron, whose eyes drifted toward the floor. Harry nodded at Pomfrey, and the three of them walked out of the Hospital Wing.

As soon as they emerged out of the doors, Ron made for the closest exit out to the Hogwarts' ground.

"Ron?" Hermione asked him urgently. Ron's long legs had allowed him quite the head start.

"Owlery." It was all he said. He spoke in his "stubborn Ron" voice that brokered no argument or debate.

"Ron, we've already tried—"

"We'll try again."

"Ron," Hermione halted in front of him. "Maybe we should simply try a more direct approach with Daphne."

Ron furrowed his brow. "What d'you mean?"

Hermione looked over to Harry, who shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea what Hermione was thinking. "Let's go get Harry's Map," she finally said.

* * *

"You look awful," Colin Creevey said. "Have you even washed up today, Greengrass?"

Daphne grunted and shrugged. She'd preferred to say as few words as possible.

"Everything all right? I think Harry, Ron and Hermione've been worried about you. I know Ginny's been also."

Daphne snorted; Colin thought she'd want to know that people were concerned about her, when in reality it was the absolute _last _thing she'd want to hear. "You ready, Creevey?"

"Er, sure." Colin's voice sounded like he was anything but; he followed her into the seventh floor room just opposite of the Barnabas the Barmy tapestry.

They walked into the room, now a vast hall filled to the brim with object that students over the years needed to hide from teachers, headmasters, other students, and so forth. They passed by a set of cabinets that looked broken, they passed by broken broom, objects covered in a substance that looked suspiciously like blood, and passed by . . .

Daphne halted and looked down. The only thing she saw was a bust of an ugly old warlock . . .

(_Maybe Binns knows him personally?_)

. . . And a tarnished tiara attached to a dingy wig.

Daphne stared at the tiara, concentrating on it as if it was the only thing in the room. There was something about it, but it looked like nothing more than the crappy costume jewelry that she used to get from the CPS-sponsored gift drives when she was younger . . . .

"Daphne?" Daphne heard Colin Creevey's voice vaguely in the distance. "We should check on our things, Daphne. This is the first time we've been able to get into this room since December."

Daphne heard Colin speaking to her, and nodded vaguely. Tearing her eyes reluctantly away from the tiara, she followed Colin to the furthest corner in the back of the room to check on their "photography collection."

"Looks like they haven't been touched," Colin offered. He looked at Daphne. "We've been here for almost _ten minutes_, and not one snappy comment? Seriously, you _are_ Daphne Greengrass, right?"

Daphne shrugged.

(_Isn't _that _the million Galleon question, Creevey?_)

"Okay," Colin said, stuffing the photographs back into their box, placing the objects that they used as protection and location marks. "You're _not_ Daphne. You're some mopey, depressed Slytherin girl and you're making _me _sad. Now," Colin said with determination, "you want to tell me what's got you so miserable."

"Fuck off, Creevey," came the response. But it was flat and emotionless and all potential spite had been removed.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong. I don't like it when my business partner looks like they're gonna off themselves . . ." Colin blanched as he looked at Daphne's face, which fell as he spoke. "Godric, Daphne, y-you're n-not thinking _that _are you?"

Daphne threw a "Go to hell" look at him. Colin threw his hands up in the air.

"Okay, that's a relief," Colin said, letting a breath out. "I still want to know what's going on. You've never had second thoughts about this stuff," he gestured to where they had just put the photographs away. "Are you having second thoughts about this whole thing now?"

"I'm a Slytherin, Creevey. This is how we roll, okay?" Daphne said. She could hear the sound of defeat in her voice. "Let's get out of here. We saw the photos. They're okay. Let's just get back before people know we're gone."

With that, she turned on the balls of her feet and started for the door. Daphne could hear Colin trailing her with his quick, little feet shuffling to keep up with her purposeful, graceless steps.

Right before they left the room, Daphne couldn't help chance one more glance toward the direction of the crusty, rusty tiara, and wondering what the hell _that_ object was all about--

"Hey! _Daphne_! Er . . . Colin? What're you two doing here?"

Daphne groaned internally as she heard the all-too-familiar sound of Ron Weasley's voice. She turned and saw the ruddy, panting faces of the three sixth year Gryffindors running to catch up with her. Colin Creevey and her had just seen the door to the Room of Requirement close and disappear behind them.

"Hey Ron, Hermione. _Harry_! Good to see you," Colin said enthusiastically. Daphne practically smacked him on the head; she didn't have the patience to deal with his "Harry Potter man-crush". She turned back to glower at the other Gryffindors.

"What the hell business is it of yours?" Daphne mumbled darkly. She winced as she saw the concern on their faces . . . the concern on Ron's face.

"We've been worried about you, D'. You're not talking to us or anything. Michael's worried about you . . . hell, _Blaise Zabini_ even went to Pomfrey, demanding you get help."

Daphne turned to Colin, who nudged her with his elbow, "_Blaise_ _Zabini_?" he mouthed at her. Daphne looked at him, pleading him to shut the hell up with her eyes.

"I don't need _help_, Weasley." Daphne put an extra note of hard-edged bitterness behind Ron's last name.

It only made him look at her with increased worry.

"This isn't you, okay?" Ron stepped forward, away from the others. He looked at her with a stubbornly-set jaw. "Whatever it is, just tell us, or go to Pomfrey, or Dumbledore—"

That was what she needed to send her over the edge.

"DON'T _EVER_ MENTION THAT BASTARD'S NAME TO ME! YOU HAVE NO _FUCKING_ IDEA WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME! DUMBLEDORE THINKS I'M WRONG! HE THINKS I'M A MISTAKE! FUCKING MEDDLESOME BASTARD THINKS HE CAN FIX ME? I'M SLYTHERIN, YOU BASTARD! I'M NOT CHANGING, I'M NOT—"

Daphne panted and breathed and knew she was crying but she couldn't care and she _didn't_ care and she saw the shocked faces of all the Gryffindors looking at her and she didn't care and she didn't care . . .

Ron moved closer to her. "Daphne," he said, quietly and firmly, with his arms reaching out to her. Daphne cowered away from him.

"_Don't,_" she said in a breathy whisper, eyes focused down and to the side. She was crying and she still didn't care . . . she didn't care . . .

"Stop." The firm voice returned. Daphne looked up at Ron, and saw nothing but sadness and compassion in his blue eyes. She wanted to retch. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to tear and rip those blue eyes right out of his head because then, maybe he'd hate her as much as she hated herself.

Ron wouldn't be looking at her like that if he knew what Dumbledore knew about her.

"You should hate me," she mumbled. "All of you should hate me."

"We don't, Daphne. We don't hate our friends, okay? We don't hate people that are important to us—"

Daphne looked up at him. He still had that confounding expression of concern, of worry, of undeserved compassion, ignorant of reality, and it made her ill that he was so _stupidly_, _blindly_ concerned about her when she was just like Voldem—

And suddenly Daphne doubled over and retched out the contents of her stomach, which was admittedly little, since she had not eaten that day. She spat and she retched and she heaved, and through the noise, she heard footsteps running away, voices saying "Pomfrey", and "Hospital Wing", and two hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her dark hair away from her face as she spilled her guts onto the cold Hogwarts stone floor . . .

* * *

"Professor . . . Headmaster . . . Calming Draught . . . Dehydrated . . ."

The voices were fuzzy-sounding and faraway. It reminded Daphne of the white static that appeared on television stations sometimes when the weather knocked out the signal, or when programming had run out for the day.

The inside of her mouth felt thick, cottony. She rubbed her tongue on the roof of her mouth, and smacked slowly.

"Daphne?"

"Miss Greengrass?"

"Everybody, out of the way. Headmaster, please stay where you are." Daphne heard the sharp, blunt tones of Pomfrey's voice barking orders left and right. She also heard the shuffling of feet as people moved out of the way. Curiosity overcoming her total lack of energy, Daphne opened her heavy-lidded eyes.

To her immediate right was a flash of red robes, white hair and blue eyes. Professor Dumbledore gazed upon her with a small, solemn smile. "How are you feeling, Miss Greengrass?" he asked in a gentle voice. Daphne rearranged the tired muscles in her face to form something as close to a scowl as she could physically accomplish.

"Go away," she said with a croak.

Dumbledore sighed. "I would like an opportunity to talk to you, Daphne."

"Not talking to you. Not talking to any of you." Daphne could see that there were other people standing around her bed, all with similar expressions of worry and sadness. And she hated them . . . she hated all of them.

"Hey, D," came Ron's gentle voice to her left. She didn't bother looking at him, closing her eyes instead. "We've been here, waiting for you to feel better. You know you can talk to us—"

"Ask him," Daphne nudged her head to Dumbledore, "I'm no longer in control of my own destiny," she said, dryly.

"Miss Greengrass," Dumbledore said with a heavy voice, "I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am for upsetting you." Daphne looked at him, hoping her eyes conveyed just how much she _did not care_. She saw only the Headmaster's eyes, wet and blue, and looking immensely sad. "I take full responsibility for the state you've been in the last few days. I wish you could have talked to me about what was troubling you—"

"Why? So you could just tell me how to _act_, what to think, what to _feel_?" Daphne spat back to him, although it sounded like a great series of croaks and squeaks.

"Miss Greengrass, if you want to, we can discuss this, just you and myself, without the others—"

"Oh, I think they should know. They should know that you thought I was going to be the next Voldemort, how I was just some sort of _tool _that you could use to make yourself feel better and okay that you let Voldemort _become_ Voldemort. _You _forced me to feel this way, _you_ forced these things on me."

She fell down back into the hospital bed, tired and pissed off and wanting nothing more than Dumbledore to leave her the fuck alone.

"Miss Greengrass, I am _very _sorry. I regret how you found out about my involvement with your childhood, and I do sincerely regret how I've handled matters. I should have approached you about them."

She waited, wanting to see if he'd continue. She watched the headmaster and wondered when he had grown so old. Finally, she heard talking, but it wasn't from the Headmaster.

"We know, Daphne."

She snapped her eyes around to find Harry Potter talking to her. Even though she was lying down in bed, she felt like the bottom of her world had dropped out from beneath her and she was falling, falling, falling . . .

(_They_ _knew?_)

(_Of course they knew. Dumbledore's giving lessons to Harry. One plus one equals "Daphne's an evil bitch and Harry Potter will never like you"._)

She felt her chin tremble and her eyes water for, like, the _thousandth_ time over the last week, and she continued to _not bloody care_.

"I've been doing research about Voldemort's past, Daphne, and I started remembering things you told me about your childhood and being a ward of the state. I told the Headmaster that I thought there were some similarities," Harry wasn't meeting her eyes, but he was walking closer to her bed.

(_He must think I'm disgusting._)

"But even though I saw the similarities with how the two of you were brought up, I know the differences between you two. Daphne, you went out of your way to be a part of the D.A. and to go to the Ministry with us—"

"Oh, well, guess what? I only did that so you would _fucking_ _notice_ _me_! Fat lot of good that did . . ."

Total silence . . .

An eternity passed. Crickets chirped. Quills dropped.

And Daphne heard nothing but heavy breathing.

(_What. The. Hell. . . . Greengrass?_)

(_Shut up! Stop talking!_)

(_Can I cut out my own tongue?_)

"What?" asked The _Idiot_ Who Lived.

"I _said, _Harry - Potter," Daphne spoke very slowly, "I did it only to get into your stupid heroic pants." She heard a disapproving breath of air coming out from Dumbledore. She only rolled her eyes.

"You liked me? As in . . . you liked me more than just as a friend?"

(_Boy might be brave, but he ain't smart!_)

"Yes. Happy now? I did this entire blasted . . . _thing . . . _so you'd like me, you notice me, and maybe, just maybe you would be willing to be with me." Daphne closed her eyes and shook her head. "Is Michael here?"

"No," said Harry quietly.

She was grateful; at least Michael Corner wouldn't hear her confession like this. "I never had a chance, then. Not when you all seem to know everything about me, and why _he_," she pointed weakly at Dumbledore, "even decided to meddle in my life." She looked over at Dumbledore, who simply kept his head bowed.

"Daphne, I do like you. . . ."

"As a friend, yes, _Potter_." Daphne brought her hand up to her eyes, covering them from the others. "Don't talk anymore. I don't need to hear it. Anything you say's gonna make me want to punch—"

(_Myself._)

"—You."

Daphne chanced opening one eye, and looked at Harry through her fingers. He was watching her with caution and sympathy. Pushing down another wave of nausea that was building at the pathetic sight of him, Daphne turned her head sharply away so that she faced Ron Weasley.

"Can everyone else leave . . . except for Ron?"

Harry, Hermione and Dumbledore all nodded in turns.

"Miss Greengrass, I will ask, upon your release from Madam Pomfrey's care, for you to come up to my office to see me. I realize how upset you are with me, which is perfectly understandable. But I would like an opportunity to explain myself to you and then offer to you my forgiveness, if that would be permissible."

Daphne could only swallow and nod in response. The Headmaster's mild tone seemed to have deflated the balloon of anger she had been surrounded in since coming up to the hospital.

With that, the two students and Headmaster left, leaving Daphne and Ron by themselves.

* * *

"Daphne?" Ron asked her. "Did you want to talk to me?"

Daphne shrugged. "Got your mum's jumper on," she mumbled.

Ron chuckled. "Don't sound too excited there." He smiled for a few moments, but it fell from his face. "Daphne—"

"Do you hate me too?" She looked up at him, and Ron could see her eyes. They were brimming with fresh tears. Ron knew that she didn't want his pity or sympathy, but looking at her right at that moment, how could his heart _not _break?

"No one hates you. We're your friends. I think of you like a sister." He watched as Daphne averted her eyes to the bottom of her jumper and fiddled with her fingers. He watched her face as her chin wrinkled and her lip started trembling again.

Having been with Hermione for several months now, Ron no longer felt the strangling sense of apprehension in dealing with displays of emotion. Of course, being a bloke, he'd prefer if girls didn't use him as their own personal handkerchief. However, looking at the Slytherin girl, she who had been the thorn in his side all of last year, she who'd been the bane of his existence, Ron was put in the strange and unique position to be the one person that the girl wanted to turn to for support.

"Hey," Ron said, moving to sit next to her on the bed, "we've known about this for a while, okay?"

"How long?" her voice was thick and heavy with moisture.

"Since October. And look, you're a proud owner of a Weasley jumper, eh?" Ron let a small chuckle escape him. He frowned when he realized Daphne wasn't amused. She continued to stare into the distance, emotionless.

"I did want to be a good person, Ron." Daphne spoke quietly, causing Ron to lean over to her. "But . . . knowing what I was like, what I remind people of . . . what good is in me? I come from shit, and I'll go back to shit."

"Daphne, I don't think where you came from has anything to do with you as a person," Ron looked at her intensely. "I had my doubts about you once. You rememeber that, right? Back then, I didn't trust you as far as I could throw you. Now? Well, now, I think you're a good person. I think you do some right nasty things, but that doesn't mean you don't have a good heart. Good people fuck up. And, maybe by the same token, bad people might do some good every once in a while. But, really, I think we're all kind of the same. Just people . . . making choices and learning from our mistakes. I know I learned from mine," Ron said quietly, lilting his voice in a hopeful way.

Daphne's chin kept quivering, the vibrations growing stronger and stronger until the water filling the edge of her lower lashes could no longer be contained, and her tears spilled out, coursing down her cheeks, staining them in a red and salty path.

She gasped and sobbed and gasped and all Ron could do was put an arm around her shoulder, telling her "It's all right . . . it's all right, yeah?" as he awkwardly hugged her.

* * *

Harry and Hermione walked back to the common room in relative silence, having said "good night" to one very exhausted and emotionally worn Headmaster.

"Did you know she liked me, Hermione?"

Harry looked at Hermione as she took a breath. "Well, no. I had my suspicions, what with her readily agreeing to everything you asked her to do, like spy on Malfoy. I think she told Ron, though."

"After everything she's done for us, everything she agreed to do against Slytherin, to try to help us out . . . it sounds like she had some pretty strong feelings," Harry said, more to himself than as part of his conversation with Hermione. He heard her take and let out a deep breath.

"Well, perhaps she used it — her feelings for you, that is — as an excuse of sorts. I think her reasons for helping us out, for trying to do what Dumbledore asked her to do goes far deeper than being attracted to you. She's not ready to admit it yet, but it's something she's struggled with all year."

Harry just looked at Hermione, with a rather skeptical look on his face. "But . . . why? Why would she struggle with her reasons for helping us out?"

Hermione kept her eyes on Harry and leaned forward. "She feels that part of her identity of being a Slytherin means she can't fully believe in the things that we're fighting for, Harry. So it's easier to justify that she tells us about Malfoy, agrees to search Malfoy's things because she's got a crush on you rather than fully accepting the fact that she doesn't believe in what _she_ sees as the Slytherin perspective."

Harry lifted his eyebrows. "That . . . makes sense," he said, then frowned. "Doesn't really make me feel better, though. I feel like I'm causing her pain."

Hermione shook her head. "I actually think she'll be fine about her feelings about you. Honestly," she said in mild and soft tone, "I think she's far more upset about finding out why Dumbledore's been so concerned about her since childhood."

Harry nodded. "But what's going to happen now? Do you think she'll run off to all the rest of Slytherin? Will she ignore us? Will she run to Malfoy?'

"It's Daphne choice. We've shown her who we are, and now she has to make the decision if she's going to continue to be our friend. I do think, though, that Slytherin might not be so accepting of Daphne even if she turns her back on us. One thing Daphne's made abundantly clear is that Slytherins are driven intensely by house loyalty. You don't see other Slytherins being friendly with other houses, well, unless they're getting something out of it, like Blaise Zabini—"

"—Wait, what?" Harry asked. Hermione waved at him.

"Long story. Anyways, Daphne appears to have been an anomaly. She actively fought with us in a battle that sent Death Eaters, including Malfoy's father, to Azkaban. Her House might not accept her back."

Harry and Hermione sat in the common room, eventually pulling out quills and books and parchments to try to do some schoolwork. Harry, for his part, took to his normal studying habits and poured over the Half-Blood Prince's Potions textbook. So engrossed was he in reading, he barely noticed Hermione's indignant tutting ("Honestly! I've a bad feeling about that book . . ." "You just don't like it because I'm giving you a run for your Galleons in Potions," Harry snapped back) or that Ron re-entered the common room fairly close to midnight.

Hermione laid down her quill, taking care not to spill any ink. "How was she?"

Ron's eyes went a bit wide as he breathed out. "Not good, if I'm being honest. She cried a lot, and talked about what crap she was, how she's evil . . ." Ron ran his hand through his shaggy hair and shook it tiredly as he yawned. "It really hit her, y'know? She seemed kinda confused about everything. Daphne was desperate to show us that she's actually a good person and not all Slytherins are snake-y bastards," Ron rubbed at his lips, "and now, she just seems, so . . . so—"

"Lost?" Hermione ventured. Ron nodded.

"But she shouldn't," Harry said suddenly. "She's a good person. Daphne's tried really hard to get us to trust her, and, well . . . look at how she reacted to Dumbledore thinking she's like Voldemort. No way she's a bad person."

"I don't think any of us are saying she's not, but Daphne herself's got to figure out that _she's_ not. All we can be is patient." Hermione exhaled and set her mouth in a firm line; however, her eyes remained soft and sad. "I do hope she doesn't fall down." Hermione glanced quickly at the table. "She seems really fragile, though, despite how hard and tough she tries to be."

Ron grunted quietly. "Don't we all . . . ?"


	26. Chapter 25: The Fallout

**A/N: **This chapter will reflect slight changes from HBP based on the events of chapter 22. The contaminated mead barrels were discovered, so, although Ron consumes the chocolate, no poisoning. I figured I've put Ron through quite a lot in this story.

I own nothing. Thanks so much to stella8h8chang for betaing this chapter. Rated T for strong language and non-explicit mild sexual situations in this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 25: The Fallout**

The term made a smooth transition towards March, and Harry, Ron and Hermione were completely focused on classes and Dumbledore's assignment for Harry. The trio had taken to spending free time in the library, pouring over any and all texts that Hermione could rustle up from the Restricted Section.

"It's like Horcruxes barely _exist_!" Hermione whispered. "I mean, _Magick Moste Evile_ won't even touch the bloody subject besides saying 'Oh, it's really bloody bad and evil, so let's move on!'" Hermione grunted in total frustration.

Ron smirked at her and spoke in his perfect Snape-sounding voice. "Miss Granger, five points for your cheeky language. I see _Mister_ _Weasley's_ been quite the influence on you."

"Oh hush!"

Harry did a double take, hearing Ron imitate Snape once again; it was creepily accurate.

Even Hermione thought that Slughorn's pointed refusal to have any time alone with Harry was quite odd. "Of course though, if Horcruxes are so bad and vile _and_ awful, Slughorn wouldn't want to be associated with them."

"_And_ he wouldn't want Harry Potter to look down on him," Ron added.

"But how in the world will I be able to get this memory out of him? I can't get him alone, and he avoids me like the plague . . ." Hermione and Ron could only return very baffled expressions.

Ron's birthday passed without incident . . . well, unless one counted accidentally consuming Romilda Vane's chocolate cauldrons that were meant for Harry. He spent the whole morning with Ron after departing Slughorn's office, trying to assure the mortified redhead that he really hadn't made an arse of himself, even while screaming out for Romilda while under the heady influence of a powerful love potion.

Hermione, however, couldn't resist a small amount of teasing Ron. He had, after all, put himself in that particular position.

"I did _tell you_," Hermione said in a sing-song voice, "beware the tiny, ruthless fifth-years bearing _gi_-_ifts_."

"C'mon, Hermione. Have some sympathy for me. It's my birthday, after all. I'm _of age_!"

Hermione responded with a teasing smirk. "Your present. Love potion _not_ included," she said as Ron ripped into the package.

"_Blimey_! Where did you get this? It's wicked." Ron unfolded a knitted blanket with the Chudley Cannons logo and Keeper symbol in the middle.

"Well, I made it, actually."

"No . . . really?" Ron looked at her in total awe.

"I used magic . . . well, I mean," Hermione blushed and fiddled with the bottom of her jumper. "I've been wanting to try a big project, so," Hermione gestured brightly to the present, "here it is!"

"I-" Ron started. He walked up to Hermione, and took her face into his hands. "I love it, okay?" Harry looked over at Ginny, both of whom were grinning at each other; it was quite clear Ron wasn't _only_ talking about the blanket.

Hermione let out a sigh and a smile and Ron gave her a light kiss.

Harry handed him a final square package.

"Er, I thought I had opened everything." Ron took the package cautiously into his hands.

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. Is there a card?"

Ron found a slip of paper, and his face fell. "It's from Daphne."

The four teenagers grew quiet. It had been over two weeks since Daphne had stopped talking to them, following her breakdown in the hospital wing. She ate at the Slytherin table, usually accompanied by Blaise Zabini, and she made a point to follow Blaise to the classes they shared to make sure they were partnered or seated together. Ron and Hermione had tried approaching her a few times, but she had merely given them stiff, yet polite nods and returned to whatever task was at hand. Harry, too, had tried talking to Daphne, but she had adopted the Slughorn method of avoidance with him as well.

Ron turned the package a few times, breathing slowly.

"Ron, why don't you see what she got you?" Hermione said, breaking the silence.

Nodding, Ron opened up the present . . . and gave a small smile.

It was filled to the brim with as much Honeydukes candy as could possibly fit in the medium-sized box.

"Want one?" Ron said with a sad grin, holding up the box so everyone could share.

* * *

"Come downstairs with me, Blaise." Daphne whinged. "I don't want to run into anyone else today by myself." To her annoyance, Blaise smirked while shaking his head.

"Can't. You know I'm meeting Eddie after dinner."

"Aw . . . screw Eddie!"

"Yes, that's sort of the point," Blaise said bluntly. Daphne looked over at him, nose wrinkled and he wiggled his eyebrows at her. She rolled her eyes.

"Disgusting."

"Do you expect me to believe that the thought of two men being together doesn't tempt you? I'll bet you look at those pictures at night while you're in bed, 'petting the kneazle'—"

"Oh I find the idea of two _men_ appealing Blaise, but two _boys _. . . not my cuppa," she retorted. "By the way, don't you find it absolutely barking that you're so chummy with me, the little blackmailing bird that's been the cause of so much grief and pain to you this year?"

Blaise, who had been writing his latest Potions assignment, placed his quill down gently. He looked directly at Daphne and started speaking.

"It _is_ true that for a few weeks, I wanted nothing more than to feed you to a pack of hungry Norwegian Ridgebacks and/or Dementors — I wasn't picky about either." A snarky smile crept up on Blaise's face. "However, I found that what'd make me happiest was seeing that look of disgusted, frustrated annoyance every time I started mentioning," and he placed his hand over his heart, "the trials and tribulations of my love life." His other hand flew up to his forehead, winking at Daphne.

"You're worse than Davis, y'know that?" Daphne said with narrowed eyes.

"Wow . . . aren't we a sore one tonight."

"Since_ you're _not walking with me downstairs, and I have to brave the possibility of seeing—"

"The Chosen Git?"

Daphne cocked her eyebrow and grinned lopsidedly. "Yes, him, among others . . . well, I'll take this as payback for every crime I've committed against you."

"Oh, yeah, _I'd_ say we're even," Blaise deadpanned.

Daphne glared at him one final time before stuffing her parchments and books in her bag and headed out of the library toward Professor Snape's office.

She realized, as soon as she went down the first flight of steps, that this would be the first time that she would see the professor outside of class, since . . .

(_Don't go there, all right?_)

Sure, Dumble-Twit . . . Dumble-Arse . . . Dumble-_Tit-Head . . . he_ had wanted to see her immediately upon her release from the hospital wing. Daphne had merely circumvented that by just not going to his office at all. He had sent her a number of reminders of his non-mandatory request, but she merely threw them out.

Thus, she wasn't sure if she would encounter the omnipotent idiot on her way down to Professor Snape's office. Additionally, she had no bloody idea whatsoever why Professor Snape would ask for her, other than to probably explain to her in great detail exactly how she continued to muck up her practical defensive spellwork.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to Professor Snape's office. She hadn't heard any voices coming from the room, so she thought that maybe this time, she'd be all right—

That was, until she stood face to face with Old Blue Eyes and her former Potions Master. Together.

Again.

"_Shit_!"

"_Language_, Miss Greengrass," said Professor Snape. I will not tolerate such language around myself or the Headmaster."

"Why, Miss Greengrass," the barmy git said with that infernal smile and blasted eye-twinkling, "I am truly surprised to see you here. It is good to know you are not avoiding every teacher. Actually, Severus," he said, turning his attention to Professor Snape (_that bloody traitor!_), "I know you requested Miss Greengrass' presence in your office tonight, but I have been meaning to speak to her for sometime, and we seem to keep getting our owls crossed."

(_Was it just my imagination, or did he just__ wink at Professor Snape? I hate him!_)

"Certainly," Professor Snape drawled, turning his small, dark, beady eyes onto Daphne. "Headmaster, _i__f_ you _need_ _me,_ I shall be in the staff lounge." And with a quick bow, he left Daphne standing with the current bane of her existence.

* * *

Left.

Right.

Left.

The moving was good.

The moving meant Daphne wouldn't be tempted to pound away at the Headmaster's thick skull.

The Slytherin in her admired his trickery in getting her to see him. However, the amount of respect she lost for Prof- . . . er, Snape for allowing this--

(_Fucker_ . . . _this_ idiot . . . _this, er . . . stupididiotfuckheadfucker!_)

. . . To manipulate both him and herself so he could have his time to assuage his guilt and make himself feel better for all the lies and exploitation and using her for all of it!

(_Does he _not _know the meaning of free will? I should be free to decide if I want to be evil or not! I'm not some . . . some _tool _for this arse to fuck around with!_)

"Miss Greengrass, I only tell you my side of your story, not to excuse or absolve myself of my sins, which, as I am old and nearing my end, are vast and plentiful. I tell you because you deserve so much."

Daphne stopped and looked at him. "Why not before?" she asked blankly. "Why not earlier? Did you think I couldn't handle this?"

Daphne watched Dumbledore as the old man continued to keep his eye on her as she continued to pace and pace and pace.

"It was never a question about what you could or couldn't handle, Daphne," Dumbledore said matter-of-factly. He leaned forward in the chair he was sitting in. "When I discovered the full picture of your past in foster care, I, and I alone, made the observations of the similarities between your upbringing and Tom Riddle's. But they were just that, my dear. Mere observation—"

"Still doesn't change the fact that you think I'm broken. You think I'm wrong, or a mistake or something."

"Daphne, dear Daphne," Dumbledore looked at her, his eyes filling with warmth and compassion.

She was _really_ starting to hate those simpering, _stupid_ blue eyes.

"_You_ _must_ know this, if you know nothing else," Dumbledore spoke to her in a slow, deliberate tone, "it is not your fault how you grew up. You did the best you could with each different placement and family that you lived with and with what you learned growing up. Yes, indeed, I shall tell you there were things that I saw in your behavior that seemed to mirror what occurred when Tom Riddle spent time in his orphanage. But, I have told you this before, and I must emphasize it again, that it was your _own_ behavior, your _own_ heart that made _me_ take pause. I realized that the _vital_, the absolutely _fundamental_ difference between the boy I knew as Tom Riddle and Harry Potter _and _yourself was the ability to love. Both you and Harry have the capacity to do this; Tom Riddle does not."

"No one's ever loved me, though." Daphne let the words spill out without thinking. She sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the room from the Headmaster.

"'Ever' is an _awfully_ long time."

She looked up at him and saw him smiling at her.

"I do believe there is a jumper that was hand-knitted for you by a wonderful woman who is a devoted and faithful wife and hard-working mother of seven beautiful children. I also believe that there are six teenagers who have been trying desperately to seek you out and talk to you, who were so worried about you that they went to Madam Pomfrey for advice on how best to help you just before you went to the Hospital Wing. I have seen and lived through many things, Daphne, and I must say that your friends have demonstrated their love for you."

Dumbledore regarded her with a long, strong stare.

Daphne turned away; the last thing she needed right now was the Headmaster's confounding, all-penetrating gaze.

"Doesn't mean anything . . ." she mumbled, although at this point, she had no idea who she was trying to convince; Dumbledore's mere mentions of the people she _had_ come to consider allies, as friends, left a warm feeling in her middle section and dammit, it felt good and right.

But it was also something that she didn't, that she _couldn't _deserve. For the hundredth . . . thousandth . . . _gazillionth_ time over the last month, she could once again feel the tears welling up in her eyes.

(_Not bloody again . . . you're less a girl and more a blasted hosepipe, Greengrass!_)

"Do you not see? You, yourself, could never become like Voldemort because of your immense capacity to love. And do not stop there — I know you desire for a family to call your own and I understand, all too well, your ability to demonstrate remorse for your mistakes and bad deeds and your own willingness to make amends for them. Daphne, for all of this, you have shown yourself as Riddle's better. You _are_ a good person."

Her tears betrayed her, and Daphne knew they were rolling down her cheeks without her permission. She brought her head down quickly, so Dumbledore couldn't gawk upon her display of emotion. Despite her best efforts, Daphne rather thought Dumbledore knew anyway.

"You must hear it again . . . Daphne, you are a good person."

"Please," Daphne said, her voice shamefully weak, "_don't_."

"Daphne, you _are_ a good person."

And Daphne couldn't talk, couldn't speak. She hated this . . . this complete inability to hold her emotions in check.

It was as if throwing her lot in with the Harry Potter crowd caused an outburst of feelings from her that she was unable to curb, lessen, or stop altogether.

Why couldn't she just be left alone to her own devices? Why did she have to answer to someone?

"Daphne—"

"Please . . . _stop_." Daphne neither looked at him nor moved. It barely felt like she was breathing normally; great big gasps seemed to have taken her body over.

"We are far more than where we come from, or from whom we are born. We are part and parcel of our everyday experiences. We are products of our environment. And we are people who each have good and bad in us; we choose the road we travel on, stumbling though we may, until we find our footing and we reach out to those that love and care about us. Do you understand me?"

(_Fine . . . I'll let the old codger win . . ._)

Daphne felt a hand cover her shoulder, and she let out a great, crying sob.

* * *

The next day started like any other. Harry, Ron and Hermione made their way toward breakfast, with Ron holding Hermione's hand and Harry making gagging motions at them. Ron was already grumbling about checking out the Slytherin table for Daphne. Ron had already told the other three that he was bound and "Merlin be damned" determined to go up to Daphne and "thank the hell out of her for the birthday present and force her to bloody talk to them or kill them all trying!"

To which Hermione had replied, "I do think you're being a bit _dramatic_."

To which Ron replied, "Maybe desperate times call for _dramatic_ _measures_.

To which Harry could only raise an eyebrow.

They were surprised to find one nervous, apprehensive-looking Daphne Greengrass standing right next to the Gryffindor table.

The three teenagers stopped and looked at each other, looking at a meek Daphne.

"Hey, er, you guys," Daphne started softly. "Er, uh . . . Ron, you got my present okay?" she asked unsurely. Ron nodded with a grin and held out two handfuls of Sugar Mice, Licorice Wands, and a couple of Chocolate Frogs to Daphne.

"I've got to share them with my friends, after all," was the only thing he said, as Daphne took a Chocolate Frog into her hand and opening it up to reveal . . . another Albus Dumbledore card.

That winked at her.

"Sweet _Salazar_! I can't get away from the barmy old idiot," she said with a smirk and held up the card to show the others.

"Want to sit with us, Daphne?" Harry asked with a smile. Daphne looked at him, her own grin faltering a bit.

She merely shrugged and shook her head. "No, er . . . I just wanted to make sure, well . . . um," she gestured to Ron, "he got the stuff, and I'll just be on my way." She walked past them.

"Daphne, c'mon," Ron said, nudging his head over to the Gryffindor table. "Just once. Think of it as an extra birthday present to me."

But Daphne shook her head, and gave a rueful smile. "I'd rather just sit over with my House." She turned around quickly, and made her way toward the Slytherin table.

"We'll meet up with you later, then," Ron said in a louder voice to Daphne's back. She merely raised and pointed two fingers over her shoulder, the only acknowledgment she would give to his invitation, and continued on her way to the Slytherin table.

"So, that's it, is it?" Ron let out a breath and looked among the faces of his friends. "Daphne's chosen Slytherin, then?" He looked at Harry and Hermione, who could only return faces that mirrored his disappointment.

"Daphne knows us. We've been ourselves around her, we've kept nothing back from her about how we treat our friends. So, it's up to Daphne now to make a decision on whether or not to continue being our friend." Hermione looked at Ron with a serious expression. Her face also betrayed another emotion, something akin to cautious, worried curiosity. Ron either ignored or neglected to notice it, for he said nothing, instead making his way toward the Gryffindor table.

Sighing, the trio sat down and finished their morning meal.

* * *

"Err-guh . . ."

(_Exactly _how_ much longer?_)

"Neyrr-guh . . ."

(_Hasn't Nott learned to do more than bloody thrust?_)

(_Well, apparently not!_)

(_The little twerp's so skinny, he'd blow away if a skrewt farted on him right about—_)

"Oh, oh Merlin . . . Sala-_ZAAAR_!"

(_He'll say every single name in the entire bloody world _except _for mine._)

(_And I'm the one he's currently banging. Forget bloody Merlin!_)

Daphne simply let Nott continue his wild, arrhythmic motions, accompanied by the most unappealing sounds.

She had her hand on Nott's fuzzy head, her fingertips feeling for the longer, softer, shaggier strands of dark hair that she had become so accustomed to.

(_Michael . . ._)

Daphne let her mind wander, thinking of her (_kind of_) former (_. . . -ish_) boyfriend. She would see him at the Ravenclaw table, during their meals. Michael would be staring at her, watching her every time she walked in with Blaise. Indeed, Michael Corner's attempts to talk to Daphne had waned over the last few days, but his eyes seemed to have taken up the task his mouth and words were failing so desperately at. He had been staring at her in classes, in the Great Hall, and whenever they'd "accidentally" encounter each other in the library.

She hadn't spoken to him since the day she had overheard Professor Snape and Dumbledore discussing her Voldemort-like childhood. Daphne simply couldn't shake this feeling that she was _dirty_ . . . tainted somehow. She couldn't stop feeling that she was _wrong_ altogether.

And since she felt like this, she didn't want to be with Michael — not right now. Not when she felt so much disgust, at herself, at Dumbledore, at a mum and dad that she had never even met. . . .

However, when Daphne would find herself with a spare moment (_Or ten! You're not the most popular girl, Greengrass!_), her mind would wander to the happier times she'd spent with Michael. During their last before-dinner snog in an empty broom closet, Michael had spent most of the time muttering funny nicknames to Daphne in between kissing and petting her . . .

"_My sexy skrewt!"_

"_Dammit, Michael!" Daphne said, her laughter belying any "indignation" on her part._

"_What's that my little serpentine sorceress?" And she pounced on him, rolling around in a tight embrace, his hand gently moving up her shirt . . ._

"Uuuuhhhhh . . ." Nott's hands clenched in fists on Daphne's sides as he apparently . . . _finished_. Grunting and wriggling out of Daphne's lap, Nott sat back on his haunches and started buckling up his pants, Vanishing his rubber to parts unknown.

(_Thank Salazar for Contraceptive Charms too!_)

Daphne looked carefully at her 'Partner-in-Shagging' in the "afterglow" of their rendezvous. Nott was a slender fellow, with hair closely cropped to his head and a smattering of receding acne across his slightly oily forehead. Daphne remembered back to their fourth year, when she and Nott started a physical relationship with each other. They tried snogging plus dating; however, both their personalities were both so . . . so . . . just _there_, and they expressed such utter indifference about the other person, that after all was said and done, the only thing they had in common was a general like for the physical aspects of their relationship. Not necessarily themselves.

Nott was, after all, a rather humorless, dry prat. Daphne found she needed a bit livelier spark if she were going to date someone. . . .

(_Michael. . . ._)

She had surprised herself, in that her brain didn't seem to wander to Harry Potter whenever she'd met up with Nott over the past few weeks. Every time she and Nott had found some empty space in which to fraternize, the image that would appear in her head was that of the tall, skinny, dark-haired Ravenclaw who sort of resembled a younger Kirley McCormack Duke of the Weird Sisters . . . who sort of resembled a younger Mick Jagger.

She could hear the sarcastic, but sweet little jokes and sayings he'd come up with, the soft serenading in his untrained, yet extremely pleasant alto voice of Beatles and Stones and Zeppelin songs; sometime before their last meeting, he had taken to singing "Don't Let Me Down" to Daphne as he nibbled softly on her earlobe. On one particular outing, he had brought his Muggle guitar with him and strummed . . . .

_You've been learnin', baby, I've been learnin',_

_All them good times, baby, baby, I've been yearnin',_

_Way, way down inside honey, you need it,_

_I'm gonna give you my love,_

_I'm gonna give you my love._

_Wanna whole lotta love . . . ?_

To which, Daphne had only been able to say, "Plant would be proud!" and she had given him a long kiss.

Whenever she did think of Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, or Ron Weasley anymore — and it was often — it was with aches and pains in both her heart and her head. With the way things had been left between them, it hurt her fiercely to maintain this distance. But, Daphne considered, it was for the best. "The Golden Trio" was the wizarding world's salvation from Voldemort's reign of terror; it simply wouldn't do to have them associating with a Slytherin whose childhood mirrored that of _the_ ultimate Dark Lord—

"You had one?" asked Nott with all the grace of a heavily-swung axe.

Assuming Nott meant 'climax', she merely nodded. "Er, sure," said Daphne, as she buttoned up her shirt and smoothed her skirt down, adjusting her stockings.

"You don't sound too sure about that."

"'M fine, Nott. Just feeling off, is all."

Nott nodded. "So, um, D-Daphne," Nott said after he tucked his shirt back into his slender-waisted trousers.

(_Now he uses my name?_)

"What's the deal with you and Potter and his friends?"

Daphne cocked an eyebrow. "You've never been interested in anything concerning my personal life before, Nott? Why now?"

"Well, er, after what we just did . . ." Nott gestured awkwardly at the spot where their cloaks had just been, "I was just wondering . . . I mean, you've not been hanging with them so much, and I thought you were going with Corner—"

(_Seriously, I think he's boring himself!_)

"I think it might surprise you that sometimes, people don't always get along. I know Slytherin and Gryffindor have had a long history of being the absolute _bestest_ friends ever."

Nott frowned at her; apparently, her sarcasm was easily detectable. "I was only asking, I didn't want the attitude . . ."

Daphne ignored him. "As for _Michael Corner_," she said, carefully emphasizing his full name, "he and I haven't spoken for a few weeks. It's how he deals with breaking up with his girlfriends," she said with a shaky nonchalance; her insides were bubbling and rolling merely talking about Michael in such a final manner.

"Er, well, that's good, I s'pose," Nott mumbled. He looked up at her with a flat expression.

"Nott? _Theodore? _Something on your mind?"

Nott cleared his throat. "D'you want to go out with me?" he muttered, almost incomprehensibly.

Daphne hoped desperately Nott couldn't hear her groaning. "Y-you're asking me out? As in, you want to be my boyfriend?" She reckoned she looked a bit like a fish. Looking at the other boy now, Daphne saw him blushing furiously.

"I mean . . . I dunno. Seems like we should make it official, er, considering . . ."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "It's just bloody _sex_! It's not a promise ring or commitment or anything."

Daphne cringed as she looked at Nott's rather pathetic face. She looked at him, knowing that her eyes were reflecting the pity that she was feeling toward the Slytherin boy.

"Nott, we _tried_ going out in fourth year—"

"Well, _maybe_ we're both different now. And I just thought, y'know, with the war going on—"

"Seriously . . . not really into you like that." And Daphne winced; now she was in the position Harry had been in with her several weeks back. Except, her relationship with Nott was far . . . _stickier_ than hers was with The Chosen One. She closed her eyes and sighed.

(_One boy that I wanted didn't like me in that way._)

(_The other boy I wanted _wanted_ me right back and I shat all over that._)

(_So, here I am now . . . a boy that I'm screwing wants me and I'm just gonna let him down._)

"You really like me like that, Nott?"

The look on Nott's face told Daphne all she needed to know.

(_There are _so_ many ways in which you _suck_, Greengrass!_)

She sighed. "Since when?"

Nott shrugged. "Started more at the beginning of this year. Kinda thought you were brave, standing up to Malfoy like that. Strong. Seemed sure of yourself."

As blank as Nott seemed, Daphne did admire his directness and ability to speak his mind in very short sentences; simple subjects and verbs were certainly his strong point. She cleared her throat.

"Um, Theod- . . . I mean, _Theo_," Daphne stepped toward him. "I think we shouldn't do this anymore." Daphne bit her lip. "I'm s-sorry, okay? I didn't mean to give you the wrong idea about me . . . er, _us_." She brought her hand up, making for his shoulder, but stopped herself. "D'you want to get back to Slytherin?"

Nott shrugged. "Yeah, sure. I'll walk you back."

They spent the time walking back to the Slytherin common room talking about Nott's family, his Death Eater father and the fact that Nott wanted absolutely nothing to do with either side in the war, and Daphne awkwardly fielding questions about her huge, knobbily-knitted green jumper with a large "D" on the front in silver.

* * *

"Still no luck with Horcruxes?" Harry asked Hermione desperately. It was a late night a week after Ron's birthday and the trio were firmly — and comfortably — ensconced in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione was pouring over a few books she had been able to check out from the Restricted Section

"Only for _you_, Miss Granger, would I allow such a liberty," Madame Pince had said haughtily when Hermione had brought the pile of books to her desk.

However, it had only led to a dead end.

"There's simply _nothing_ in any of these texts," Hermione said with a frustrated and disgusted wave. Never had the bushy-haired Gryffindor prefect been so utterly confounded by books. Ron rubbed her shoulder sympathetically.

"Well, you definitely gave it your best shot," said the red-head. Hermione could only muster a tired grin in response.

Harry had spent most of the evening studying the Marauder's Map. He had taken to using it shortly after the term commenced to try to find Malfoy's whereabouts. Unfortunately, many times, Harry couldn't even seem to _find _him anywhere on the map.

"Maybe he's sneaking off grounds, or — or he's Apparating to the nearest Death Eater meeting—"

"I swear on Merlin's grave, if you are even _insinuating _that someone could Apparate in or out of Hogwarts, I'll . . . I'll . . ." Hermione's face was as red as Ron's hair.

"Okay, okay. So I forget sometimes that you can't Apparate in or out of Hogwarts." Ron gestured toward her with a mollifying smile. "This is why Harry and I have you around. To set us right."

Hermione visibly relaxed and grinned at him. "Hope that's not the only reason."

"Well, I can't speak for Harry," Ron said, leaning toward her, "but I know I kinda like having you around to snog bloody senseless . . ."

"_Oi_!" Harry said, looking up from the Map, "I might be focused on something, but I'm _still here_!" He folded up the Map in frustration. "I just don't _know_ where that ferrety arse is! He doesn't appear anywhere on the map, and Daphne . . ." Harry winced as he brought up her name. Ron and Hermione had similar reactions.

They had no idea how Daphne was doing in Slytherin (although, Harry noted with disgust, that he seemed to make out Daphne's dot _awfully_ close to Theodore Nott's on a fairly regular basis). There hadn't been any word through the Gryffindor gossip grapevine (a.k.a. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil) of any skirmishes in any of the Houses, nor did Ron and Hermione hear anything bubbling away in Slytherin during their prefect meetings.

"Actually," Hermione said after a few moments, breaking the awkward silence that fell among the teenagers, "it's funny, Ron. You had it partly right."

Ron furrowed his brow in confusion. 'What d'you mean?"

"Witches and wizards can't Apparate, but house-elves such as Dobby can, which is quite fascinating, because—"

Harry froze. All this time . . . right under his nose . . . Dumbledore had told him over the summer that _he_ was now in Harry's care, that Harry could order _him_ to follow Malfoy . . .

(_Shit! Of course!_)

(_It would be the least that blasted house-elf can do after betraying Sirius . . ._)

"Kreacher?" Harry said. Ron and Hermione jumped together, knocking over their ink bottles as two house-elves appeared in the Gryffindor common room, rolling this way and that.

"_Dobby_!" Harry and Hermione yelled in unison. Ron picked up a squirming Dobby while Harry saw to Kreacher, both house-elves still flailing about.

"Harry, what's going on?" Hermione asked him suspiciously, while Harry continued to struggle with Kreacher, who was muttering his typical Kreacher-rot: "Master, holding Kreacher in his arms . . . Kreacher doesn't appreciate being handled by a dirty blood-traitor . . . filthy Mudblood . . ."

"_Harry Potter_, sir," Dobby stood, a bit wobbly from being pulled off of Kreacher, and saluted Harry. He could barely lift his arm; the sleeve of his knobby, oversized jumper and the five pairs of multicolored socks covered his appendage and weighed it down.

But he smiled as enthusiastically as ever at _his _Harry Potter.

"Kreacher is saying _awful_ things about the great Harry Potter! Kreacher is _almost _not coming up here when the wonderful and kind and great Harry Potter asked him to . . ."

"Kreacher is certain," croaked the other house-elf, "that the _great _Harry Potter will force him to do things his loyal and wonderful masters would find _ab-sol-utely_ disgusting. Force Kreacher to be in the presence of Mudbloods and blood-traitors—"

"_Watch. It._ You little toerag." Ron pointed his finger warningly. Harry had to grab Dobby once again to prevent the little fellow from pummeling Kreacher.

"_Do not. Talk. About. Harry Potter's friends. Like. THAT_!"

(_Great Godric! For a little elf, he's a strong one!_)

"Hermione, I'm sorry about this, but I need Kreacher to do something for me," Harry said in a hurried voice. He quickly cast the Muffliato Charm around the five of them and laid out his plan.

* * *

**A/N: **_Lyrics from "Whole Lotta Love" by_ Led Zeppelin (such a strong Zep contingent from readers! ;0) The song is on_Led Zeppelin II _and was released on October 22, 1969.

In order to help stem my current "Second Thought" series writer's block, I wanted to take a poll from the "From Hell" readers; which character should be my next "A Second Thought" story? I've gotta few ideas for a couple of the characters, but I sort of wanted to see if there was any interest in a specific one.

Love to hear from ya in a review! Thanks!


	27. Chapter 26: Starting Over

**A/N: **This chapter is heavy on HBP plottiness, just to warn you. The changes I've made are primarily dialogue in nature, since most things remain the same as they do in the book.

I own nothing. Thanks so much to stella8h8chang for her help with beta'ing this chapter. Rated T for strong language.

* * *

**Chapter 26: Starting Over**

"Daphne," Hermione said, brightly with an undertone of fatigue, "what are you studying tonight?"

She looked up, her face and emotions both a bit empty. Hermione had caught her off-guard as she looked up magical research papers to counter the work of Healer Stallsworth.

Lately, Daphne had found herself pouring over various magical texts and books, even going to Madam Pince's fairly extensive Parchment Archive of all the Healer texts covering Sanguigenetics, otherwise known as the study of the genetic origins of magical blood properties. Spending so much time with Blaise Zabini had apparently triggered in her a need to have the last word regarding pure-blood superiority . . . and the fact that it was a myth.

"Oh hi Herm-. . . er, Granger."

"It's _Hermione_," the other girl said softly. "We've been through too many things _together_ over the last few years for you to call me by my last name."

Daphne couldn't help but allow a small smile to escape from her lips. "Well, there's a bloke called 'The Healer' — you familiar with him?"

"I believe so. Is he the Healer that specialized in pure-blood research?" Hermione asked.

She nodded. "His work is frequently referenced in Slytherin House to support pure-blood superiority, which is kind of odd because he was in Ravenclaw ages ago. His great-grandson, Damien, was in my house, though, during my first two years here, and we got to hear all the _wonderful_ shite about pure-blood this, Muggle-borns stealing powers that, and yada, yada, yada."

"So you're looking up other things by Healer Stallsworth?"

"Actually, I'm looking up things to counter The Healer's research because of a continuing, long-standing argument between me and Blaise," she replied with a snort. "It's ironic, of course — a Slytherin researching arguments against a Ravenclaw Healer to convince another Slytherin that blood purity isn't all that because the bloke's Ravenclaw boyfriend paid her to do so." She grinned and gave another small snort of incredulity. "It's either ironic _or_ completely mental. I'm not quite sure which."

Hermione chuckled softly. "It sounds like something you could use help with. Would you mind if I looked also?"

Daphne shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then finally settled down enough to look at the other girl's face, eager and waiting for a reply. Coughing to clear her throat, she once again, gave her a small smile. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have another set of eyes."

* * *

"Hufflepuff's cup. Slytherin's locket. The bloody hell is that daft fool on about?" asked Ron, slamming his book shut in tired frustration.

Harry and he were sitting in the Gryffindor common room, thumbing through Hermione's copy of _Hogwarts, A History_, 6th Edition, "Unabridged, now with Audible Foot-notation". Both boys were at a loss as to any other information about these two items, and she was mysteriously up in the library again, studying or . . . _something_. Their usual routine for the past few weeks was that Hermione would return with several books for Harry and Ron to peruse through in their research on the two Founders' items Harry had seen in his last lesson with Dumbledore.

While they waited for her, however, the boys would use their Hermione-less time to either goof off or soundly complain about their lack of progress and general floundering in their research. Their bushy-haired companion would also cast the Dual-Dialogue Charm to ask the boys questions about their research:

_**"Boys,**_

_**I can only hope that I won't be disappointed when I return to the common room**_ _**and find that the two of you have decided to play several rounds of Wizard Hangman. . . ."**_

To which Harry and Ron both groaned in exasperation — because they were doing exactly that.

"So, between this and getting that memory from Slughorn _and _finding about whatever nasty crap Malfoy's up to . . . dammit, this is frustrating." Harry said, slapping his palm on the table, causing the latest verbal corpse on the parchment to swing violently to and fro. "One. I just want _one_ _thing_ to go my bloody way."

"Well, you still haven't snuffed it? That's a positive," said Ron with a shrug.

"Mighty fine help you are, mate."

The portrait door swung open, and Ron and Harry saw Dean Thomas and Ginny Weasley storming into the common room. It seemed as if they were the center of everyone's attention, for the whole of Gryffindor watched the teens very carefully. Dean looked like he was desperately trying to explain something to her, but the dark look on Ginny's face said she was not having any of it.

As soon as his sister stormed up the stairs, Ron strode over to Dean Thomas. Harry kept his eye on the path Ginny walked from the common room to the girls' dormitory, allowing his mind to drift over to the pleasant thought that maybe _that _particular fight would be the death knell for this pesky relationship . . .

"_Thomas. _I don't bloody care if you're my dorm-mate. You so much as _hurt_ Ginny—"

"Seriously? You've lived with her your entire life! You should bloody well know that it ain't gonna be her that gets hurt here."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that Ginny is far more likely to end this relationship than I am."

"Well," Ron said, his arms crossed and a look on his face like he wasn't quite sure what he wanted to say next, "maybe she should."

Dean could only glare at him. He shook his head and sat down on the couch as made his way back toward Harry, a thunderous look on his face.

"Er," Harry muttered, Ron's mood snapping him out of his Ginny-induced trance, "you okay?"

"Fine. 'M fine. Where were we?" He had just picked his book back up when Hermione walked back into the common room, armed with a small pile of books.

Ron grunted out a greeting.

"What's gotten into you?" she asked him. When Ron didn't answer her, Hermione turned to Harry, her eyes pleading for a response.

"Ginny had a fight with Dean. She stormed upstairs. Ron and Dean had words. Ron's now pissed . . ."

"Potter!"

"What? You are."

Hermione took in a breath. "Well, maybe Dean and Ginny will end their relationship. I'm not quite sure they're cut out for each other. Dean's somewhat mildly tempered, and Ginny seems to need someone who'll both spar with her and match her sense of humor. Dean's just very laid back, and he never says the right things to her, isn't very demonstrative about things . . ."

"How long do you think they have?" Harry asked a bit overly enthusiastic. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Curious, aren't we today?"

He merely mumbled. "Just wondering. For Ron, 's all."

"Hey," Ron said to Hermione, apparently snapping out of his angry state, "where've you been this whole day?"

"Oh, just in the library. With Daphne for part of it, actually."

He laid down his quill. "How's she doing?"

"She seems to be doing all right. I was helping her with a bit of research she's doing on a very popular pure-blood supporter called The Healer." She stopped, surprised as Ron winced and made a sharp hissing noise. "You know about The Healer?"

"There's not a pure-blood family that doesn't know about that arsed fuckwit (_"Ron_!" Hermione exclaimed. "Be quiet if you insist on swearing.") and his barmy views about Muggle-borns stealing magic from pure-bloods and half-bloods. I've heard Dad, Bill and Charlie discussing the git's foul research and how there's quite a few in the Ministry that buys into that swill. Why's Daphne doing research on him? Not for some class project?"

Hermione shook her head. "She's actually looking up research done by other Healers and Magical Researchers and Historians that contest The Healer's work. She wants the last word with Blaise Zabini about all that blood superiority nonsense."

Ron let a small grin escape over his lips. "Still the voice of opposition in Slytherin, eh?"

She gave a small smile herself. "She may not be talking much to us these days, but she certainly seems to be upholding her role as the Slytherin iconoclast quite well."

Ron twiddled awkwardly with his quill. "I miss her, guys."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. I mean, I _want_ to talk to her about what happened in February. Even if I don't like her in that way, it doesn't mean that I don't want to be her friend. She's been brilliant with us, y'know."

"Actually, Harry," Hermione said with a smile spreading on her face, "I have a feeling that she might not be missing you as much as she thought she would. I've been sitting with her in the library for a few days, and she's constantly bringing up Michael Corner."

He grinned. "Really? Are they working things out?"

Hermione shook her head, but she continued to smile. "They haven't spoken since February either, _but _every time we've been in the library, Michael finds a table nearby to keep his eye on her, and . . . well, I sort of did something tonight."

Ron and Harry sat forward. "Okay . . . spill it Hermione," Ron said, with unrestrained anticipation.

"I sort of helped Michael 'kidnap' Daphne, so he could sneak her into one of the studying cubicles in the library."

"Wicked!" exclaimed Ron.

"Well, it was just _pathetic_, the way Daphne would go on and on about Michael, and the looks he'd give her. I was about to lose my dinner just watching them." Hermione rolled her eyes.

Ron looked at Harry and sniggered. "My Hermione. Such the romantic."

* * *

(_Screw Hermione. I mean, Granger!_)

(_Stupid, bushy-haired, meddling, brilliant . . . I-I mean stupid cow!_)

Daphne only glowered at second Ravenclaw bloke that had kidnapped her this year. Except this one had help from Hermione Granger.

Now, instead of continuing on her research, she was stuck in this dark room with Michael Corner.

Git. Prat. Idiot. Adorably hilarious . . .

(_Er . . . Git extraordinaire._)

"Well?" she said after a few moments more of intense scowling.

"Okay, see? Now this is the most I've seen you scowl since the beginning of the year. It's clear you need my sparkling personality, more than ever."

Daphne turned around. Well, as much as she could, given the amount of room that the study cubicle afforded them.

She _really_ did not like his rather spicy, cinnamon-y smell, mixing and mingling with something akin to fresh parchment and freshly washed laundry.

(_Nope! Not doin' a thing for me!_)

Daphne kept biting her cheek, her lips, her tongue . . . anywhere she could on the inside of her mouth. She felt her breath hitch as he put his hands on her shoulders.

"Look, can we talk? There's so much that happened over the last several weeks, and I want to get it all out."

"Michael, why don't you just make up some lame excuse, like Slytherin beating Ravenclaw at Quidditch or something equally petty, and just stop seeing me altogether. Y'did _that_ really well with _Ginny_."

Daphne turned just in time to see him wince slightly, and she felt something squirm guiltily in her guts.

He took a deep breath. "D'you want to know the reason why I acted like a total prat to Ginny?"

When Daphne said nothing, he started talking. "About a month before Gryffindor played Ravenclaw, we had . . . er, _met_ _up_, in a broom closet on the fifth floor."

Daphne couldn't help but let a snicker loose. Michael fumbled with his hands.

"Well, right when we were really getting into the snogging, Ginny called me 'Harry'."

Daphne felt her breath catch in her throat.

He swallowed, looked down at the floor, and fiddled with his hands. "I never brought it up with her, and we didn't talk about it. I'm not sure if she knows she even did it. But she did it a second time after that, a couple of weeks before the Quidditch game. I had been in denial, so when she said 'Harry' the next time, I felt, well, a bit put out. I continued to let it slide, not really doing anything about it or wanting to bring it up, but I kept thinking about it, dwelling on it when she wasn't around or when I was with her."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "After the game, I was just so bloody _angry_ with her and how happy she was that she beat us, I wanted to bring her down a few notches. Not sure that worked though. She simply moved on to Dean Thomas."

"Ginny liked Harry? Ginny _likes_ Harry?" Daphne asked weakly.

Michael nodded and gave her a small grin. "To her credit, she never told me that directly when we were going out. I guess my brilliant Ravenclaw brain that figured out that she was actually thinking about Harry all along, because she kept saying his _name_ while we were kissing. So, I hooked up with Cho because I wanted revenge and I wanted to see if I could knock Harry Potter right out of someone's head."

(_Well, it definitely worked with me._)

(_Oh. Bloody. Buggering. Hell._)

"Did it work?"

"That would be no," Michael deadpanned. "Cho wasn't over either Harry or Cedric. So, clearly, _that _was over before anything really began."

Daphne swallowed the great lump that had stuck in her throat.

(_He deserves the truth. It'll hurt like hell, but he deserves it._)

"Michael," she said hoarsely, "I joined the DA and fought at the Ministry last year because I was attracted to Harry and I wanted him to notice me."

She felt the color drain from her face as he merely looked at her, snorting.

"_Seriously_?! What is it with me and girls that want Harry? I don't even know him, and I can't get away from him. Did you still like him after we started going out?"

Daphne could only make her head move in small nods. "I did, but," she said, her voice unnaturally soft to her own ears, "I really liked you too." She bit her lip, chancing a look at him. "I still like you, to be honest. I think about you tons. I miss you. I'd never dated anyone really, and you seemed to be interested in me, talked to me about music, joked around with me, and you . . . you actually. You didn't run away when, y'know—"

Her hands fluttered in the air in front of her face. "You saw me cry and you didn't bolt."

Michael looked at her. "You're talking about when we were in that classroom and we were talking about your past sex life?"

Daphne nodded and suddenly, her current sex life came firmly into view.

"I was having sex with Nott until a week ago," she blurted out. "_No, no_," she said when Michael stopped looking at her, his face and eyes firmly on the ground. "N-not while you and I were together. It started mid-February, shortly after we stopped talking—"

"After _you_ stopped talking to me," he said sharply.

She could only nod and shrug in meek agreement.

"It ended the second week in March. I'm not still with him. Actually, I was never _with him _with him. I was just with him. Dammit!"

Daphne hit her head with her hand. She hated words and words that were supposed to be about feelings. She licked her dry lips; her tongue met rough, chapped skin.

"Do you want to know why I stopped talking to you in February?"

He nodded slowly. Daphne girded herself; this was not going to be fun.

"I overhead Dumbledore and Professor Snape talking about me. My childhood. They were talking about things I did when I was a child. Things that scared Dumbledore and caused him to keep an eye out on me."

He wasn't looking at her, but he seemed to be rooted on the spot, appearing like he was waiting for her to continue.

"Dumbledore told Professor Snape that I reminded him of someone who went really, _really_ bad." Daphne said, whispering. "Someone who was so awful, who was so foul, who brought so much harm to others, who killed, who terrorized . . . someone whom the Ministry keeps ignoring, but he's out there," Daphne said, looking out the window, "killing and terrorizing . . . "

"Wait. Do you mean You-Know-Who?" he asked softly.

Daphne hadn't even realized that she had been talking to another person; she had somehow drifted back to _that_ evening, and she was standing just outside the Potions classroom and she was listening to the same conversation.

Returning to herself, she looked at him. With a very disgusted look on her face, fighting back the urge to vomit, she nodded.

He let out a breath. "But, I know you. You're not . . ."

"But y'see why I didn't want to be around anyone?" Daphne said desperately. She could hear the tension and volume mounting in her voice. "I'm utter shit, Michael. Complete. Utter. Foul. _Shit_! Harry, Ron and Hermione said they don't think so. Dumbledore tried telling me that I'm better than Voldemort — oh, not you too," she said incredulously, watching him wince. "Well, it's just, I . . . I shouldn't be around people. I'm _really _fucked up."

Daphne watched him. Michael was watching her, looking at her with eyes that were gradually growing softer, more understanding. She hated that. That _softness. _That emotional response that he, somehow, felt compassion for her.

"I don't want your sympathy or anything," she mumbled.

"I'm not pitying you, Daphne." Michael still looked at her with his soft eyes, but his voice was normal and steady. "I'm here for you. I don't want to make the same mistakes I made with Ginny or with Cho. I wasn't honest with them, and they were never honest with me. But you. You're the only person that I've ever met that can stand in front of me and tell me like it is. It's like you're incapable of keeping things from me. Plus, you've got a brilliant sense of humor, you listen to me when I go off the deep end with my music stuff that no one else wants to listen to, and you keep blurting our your little bombs of truth. And I just like you. I really, _really_ like you. So, can we just sort of start over again? As friends for now?"

Michael waited for her to say something.

Daphne swallowed. She wanted to agree with him. The words were right on her tongue; but her brain, once again, acted completely of its own accord.

"I've been blackmailing people too."

She shut her eyes tightly; to her dismay, Michael gasped.

"_Whoa_! Um . . . okay. Why?"

He looked at her, and Daphne noticed that his eyes became hard once again. Her heart suddenly felt heavy.

"I needed money. Malfoy and his gang made fun of me all throughout first year for my shitty things and crappy second-hand robes and schoolbooks," Daphne said, her voice low and filled with shame and guilt as she thought about all of her bad deeds in the past. "He'd throw wizard money at me in the common room, yell things at me about being poor, telling me I needed to beg. So, starting halfway through my third year and beyond, I've blackmailed to get money and, more recently, protection."

"Protection?"

She swallowed. "In Slytherin. Malfoy and Parkinson led the antagonism against me this year, and I had to do something to ensure they wouldn't try anything worse than the occasional mild curse or fisticuffs. I want to tell you more than just that, but it involves revealing some secrets that I'm not really at liberty to tell."

Daphne felt her breathing growing heavy again, and water building in her eyes. _A__gain_. She closed her eyes, and that stupid, blasted wetness ran down her cheeks. Bringing her hands up to her face, she batted away her tears. She was fairly certain, after this year was finally over, that she'd be completely devoid of all moisture.

"You blackmailed people for money and for security," He said in a flat voice.

"We call it insurance," she squeaked out. He shot her a sharp look as she interrupted him.

"You blackmailed people? _You've blackmailed people_?!"

He looked at her with total disgust. It was as if the full weight of her words finally hit him, and he realized what she was saying.

It was his _tone_ — the anger, the disbelief, the _revulsion_ in his voice — tones that he had never used with her before that did her in.

She realized that, with her admission, Daphne had lost the one person outside of the trio that thought of her not as a Slytherin, but as an actual person.

At that moment, she felt her heart breaking.

And she realized, perhaps far too late, that she had somehow, at some point too far behind her to identify, she had chosen Michael Corner over her long-time, unrequited infatuation with Harry Potter.

"I'm sorry." Daphne's voice was strangled, filled with moisture and snot. She opened her mouth wide, gasping, tasting the salty water that had spilled down her face. "I-I sh-shouldn't . . . oh, Godric, I hate myself . . . oh, fuck! I'm sorry, Michael. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . ."

She saw him through a haze of tears and shadows cast about by moonlight coming through the small window of the cubicle. He didn't seem to be moving toward her, but Daphne thought his eyes were closed, and it looked like he was gripping the edge of the desk in the room.

"Daphne, I don't know about this," Michael said after a few moments. "This is bad." He looked at her. "Really bad."

She nodded. "I kn-know. A-actually, um . . ." She took two gasping breaths to calm herself down, "I w-was thinking . . ." she closed her eyes, "over this summer, f-finding the people I d-d-did this to and giving back their money. I also need to give back the money that I took fr-from people this year . . ."

She stopped talking, as she saw him turning and walking to the door.

"M-Michael?" her voice came out as a squeak.

"Look, I just . . . I want to think about this, all right? Give me some time to sort this . . ." His words faded, but Daphne barely registered it.

She was crying, crying hard into the sleeve of her jumper, crying so loud that huge gasps of air seemed to reverberate all around the room. It was all indistinguishable from Daphne's constant, painful refrain of "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry . . ." directed to neither herself or to Michael Corner.

She felt, rather than saw, an arm go around her shoulder, pulling her head down to meet a soft, wooly surface. Michael leaned his head on top of hers and Daphne felt the pressure of his comforting gesture and her tears started to subside as he kept a tightly calming hold around her.

* * *

Urged on by the guilt he felt from his last lesson with Dumbledore, Harry started looking through anything he could get his hands on to try to find a way to get Slughorn to give up that damn memory. However, the more he looked, the more Harry couldn't help but think he'd reach an impasse.

In his frustration, he took to thumbing through the textbook for the Half-Blood Prince, much to Hermione's annoyance and consternation. Marking a page with the spell Sectumsempra for future use on any enemies (_watch out, Malfoy!_), Harry searched desperately through the textbook for anything that could possibly be used on Professor Slughorn.

After having struggled with the constant reminder of the Apparition Test for late April, Ron was now wrestling with Snape's near-impossible to finish essay on Dementors. His completion was made more difficult because the Spell-Check Quill he had been using seemed to be losing its charm.

"Dammit, dammit, _dammit_!" Ron exclaimed, shaking his quill. "My – bloody – name – isn't – Roonil – Wazlib."

Hermione volunteered to check over his work, to which Ron could only reply with an air-blown kiss and a tired "I love you, Hermione." Blushing and smiling, Hermione set out to fix Ron's nearly-ruined essay, when . . .

_CRACK! CRACK!_

"_Kreacher_!"

"_Dobby_!"

From both house-elves, the trio found out that Malfoy had been up to something.

"Sonofa- . . . ! Why didn't we think about it before . . . The Room of Requirement wouldn't show up on the Map at all. It's Unplottable." Harry looked down with a triumphant grin. It was almost all too good to believe. He might yet catch Malfoy in the act . . . of whatever it was he was doing.

"Harry, there's no way to know what Malfoy's doing in that room. You have to know the specific reason Malfoy is using the room, remember?"

(_Why does she have to shit all over my parade?_)

Neither Hermione nor Ron was in the mood to entertain further discussion about Malfoy, however. No matter how many times Harry brought it up, no matter how many valid reasons he mentioned that they needed to investigate further . . .

"But, Hermione. Don't you see? If Dobby and Kreacher were able to find out Malfoy's currently using the Room of Requirement, that means Dumbledore _hasn't_ been able to stop him so far."

"Harry, I would tell Dumbledore what you know about it, but focus on finding out about Professor Slughorn's memory. That's the most important thing. Dumbledore's asked you specifically about it, and it's a task only you can handle." She gave him a stern look before packing her things away and heading up to her bed.

"But I've got _no_ idea how I'm supposed to discover the memory when Slughorn won't – even – talk – to – me!" Harry said slowly, frustration and exhaustion dripping from every word."

The next day, he spent a couple of hours trying to get into the Room. He tried every possible command he could think of, all revolving around the rat-faced, ferrety arse that was clearly up to no good.

(_I need to find the room Malfoy's in . . . I need to find the room Malfoy's in . . . I need . . ._)

(_Ohh-kay,_)

(_I need the place Malfoy keeps coming secretly . . . repeat three times . . ._)

(_Bugger!_)

Harry tried every possible combination of "Malfoy" and "doing" and "in this room" that was in his mental vocabulary. His many attempts over the next few weeks resulted in him arriving late to a couple of classes, notably Snape's.

"Potter, if _you_ dare to be late _again_, I shall _be_ _forced_," Snape said, leaning close to Harry, greasy strands of hair hanging gracelessly in his face, "to give you _de-_tention."

His frustration already at a high due to his utter inability, his total _failure_ at discovering Malfoy's suspected supremely evil task, simply decided that the best way to answer Snape at this point was to say, "Oh, 'cause someone's _really _twisting your arm to punish me."

Hermione and Ron groaned. Harry could hear a fairly audible "Tsk!" behind him, and knew Daphne was probably just as exasperated at him as Ron and Hermione were.

"Harry," Hermione huffed at him after class, "you didn't have to go there with Snape!"

"Just leave it," he snapped back.

"Okay, time out," Ron responded. He grabbed Harry by the back of a neck, as if he were a little kitten. "Hermione, we'll meet you in the common room. Potter," Ron said to his friend, "you're comin' with me."

Ron whisked Harry to the nearest boys' bathroom.

"Seriously. You need to relax," Ron said sensibly. "There's no need — _AAARGH_!"

He nearly fell over in shock as he came face to face with a more-despondent-than-normal Moaning Myrtle.

"For crying out loud, Myrtle! This is the _boys' bathroom_!" Harry exclaimed.

To his right, Ron muttered darkly, "Stupid cow . . ."

"Oh, it's just you two. Stopped coming to see me in the girls' bathroom, and here you are, with your little secrets and your little jokes. You probably scared him off, you know. So sensitive . . . he's not afraid to show me his feelings, to let me see him cry . . ."

"Whatever Myrtle. Wait," Harry said, "scared who off?"

"Oh, _nooo-_body," Myrtle said cryptically.

"There's a boy who comes in here, who's been crying? Do you talk to him?" Harry asked.

"I'm not telling _you_," said Moaning Myrtle, "I'll not reveal his secrets to anyone. Besides," she added, "you wouldn't even care about him. Not like I do . . ."

Abandoning all further attempts to find out the identity of the crying boy, Harry and Ron made their way back up to the Gryffindor common room, where Hermione was waiting for them.

Finally, it was the day of the Apparition Test, and Ron was a total nervous wreck.

"Deliberation. Determination . . . _devastation_," he said, exasperatedly.

"Ron, you can't keep thinking negatively," Hermione said. "It'll affect your ability to Apparate today."

"My _crappy_ Apparition will affect my ability to Apparate today." Ron said sardonically. Her mouth set in a straight line as she refrained from saying anything further on the matter.

"Look. Hermione's right." Harry said. He had just gone through another long list of swear words through his head as he tried to find something in his Potions textbook to help him out with Slughorn. "You've just gotta believe you can do it. You've Apparated successfully once before, remember?"

"Yeah, but I overshot it a bit and landed just past Madame Puddifoot's." Ron said, a slight whinging quality creeping into his voice. He snapped his fingers. "Remember when you 'gave' me Felix Felicis before our first Quidditch match, Harry? Maybe I should take it again . . ."

"_Ron_!" Hermione said sharply. "You can't Apparate under the influence of Potions or other substances. You've got to be careful if you're under medicinal treatment by Healers too. It says right here—"

He stopped her even as she held up the pamphlet.

"Hermione, I was only kidding." Ron had come a long way in learning how to deal with her when she took things a bit too seriously. She rolled her eyes at him and wriggled his eyebrows in response.

A fourth-year Gryffindor girl approached them right where they were sitting in the courtyard just outside the Entrance Hall.

"Harry Potter?" the girl said with a slightly nervous-sounding squeak. "I'm supposed to give you this . . ." and she handed him a rolled-up parchment.

"From Dumbledore?" Ron asked when the girl left.

"No, it's from Hagrid," Harry replied. "Aragog died." He gave the parchment to Ron and Hermione, who grimaced and gasped respectively.

"He's not bloody serious, is he?" Ron asked in a horrified whisper.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" he asked, not quite sure what answer he should give; the one that he_ knew _what Hagrid wanted or the one Ron wanted to hear.

Hermione looked gobsmacked. "But — but it'll be _at_ _night_. We _can't _go out at night for a funeral for . . . for—"

"A blood-thirsty arachnid who wanted nothing more than Harry for dinner and me for pudding," Ron finished.

She shook her bushy head and closed her eyes. "All right," she took a couple of deep breaths, calming herself down. "I will not let unbelievably insane requests stress me out . . . I will not let unbelievably _crazy_, insane requests stress me out, even if they're from Hagrid, whom I love and adore . . ."

Ron and Harry chuckled as they listened to her.

"We've got to get going," Hermione said after a moment. Jumping up, she brushed down her skirt and straightened it out. "Harry, you'll be working on a way to get that memory from Slughorn, won't you?"

"Godric! How in the world'm I gonna pull this off? All the bloody luck in the world—"

"_Harry_!" Ron shouted, snapping his fingers, "Felix Felicis! Why the hell didn't we think about that before. Use it to get the memory from Slughorn tonight." Ron said triumphantly. Hermione squealed with delight, jumped up and squeezed him around the neck thoroughly.

"You're brilliant, Ron!"

"Don't get to hear much of that these days." Ron rolled his eyes and grinned. "What d'you think, Harry?"

Although he had been saving the unopened bottle of Felix for some special occasion involving a redhead that was most definitely _not_ Ron but a certain _sister _of Ron's, Harry had to admit that it was the best idea they or anyone else could've come up with. And the three of them had just heard about the latest attack by a child who'd been forced to kill his own family. The story sobered Harry up as to his priorities; finding out about Horcruxes and the unedited version of Slughorn's memory.

* * *

Blaise Zabini jumped a few feet in the air as the heavy stack of papers Daphne had been carrying hit the table he was sitting at with the force of a mountain troll swinging a club at its prey. She took a bit of smug pleasure in interrupting Blaise during one of his quiet moments in the Slytherin common room.

"What the hell?"

"This, _friend-o_," she said, the sound of triumph saturating her voice, "is my anti-Healer Stallsworth pile of research—"

"More like dragon dung—"

"And you need to read it, my precious _Blaise_."

He threw her a dirty look. "I don't _need_ to read anything, _darling_ Daphne. I've read enough already, and I've got a shitload of work to do for my classes. I don't need anymore of whatever the hell this is."

She plopped herself down in the seat right across from him. "You know that Stallsworth's parents were killed in front of him by a Muggle, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"He was 12 years old, and home on holiday from Hogwarts. His parents had decided to go to Muggle London to have dinner. I guess they wanted to try something new and different, I don't know. But, it was nighttime, and apparently, they'd stumbled upon a rather rough neighborhood." Daphne looked at Blaise, who was staring at the pile of papers with an elegantly arched eyebrow.

"Anyways, during his third year and until he graduated, Stallsworth went to live with his uncle, who was a Healer who had distinct pure-blood leanings in his research. Blaise, it's all here, in his biography."

She gave him the old, brown leather-bound book, and watched him as he looked over the title.

"'_The Healer's Touch: The Life of Phillip Marcus Stallsworth, _2nd Edition, with New Audible Forward by Chief Healer Ira Snodgrass, Medi-Board Certified, 1960.'" Blaise looked at Daphne, eyebrow still raised in its eternally arrogant glory. "You want a book report too?"

"Blaise, the Healer's research was based on personal prejudice. These other Healers," she said, laying a hand on the stack of parchments, "state that he started out with a decent hypothesis — 'do pure-bloods have more magic than half-bloods or Muggle-borns?' — but his experiments weren't accurate. He 'cleaned up' his research and affected its accuracy, did away with samples that didn't fit the questions he was asking, altered the experimental spells too much between pure-blood samples and samples from half-bloods and Muggle-borns."

"This information is publicly available. Open to anybody. But one thing the wizarding world does just as well as the Muggle world — perhaps even better — is that they can refuse to distribute information that upsets the status quo."

Blaise made a big show like he was already bored of the conversation and put his head on his hands; Daphne noted that he did not get up or move away from her. She took this as a positive sign.

"We've never had a Ministry administration that's been willing to do anything about this. Fudge wouldn't have known what his own bollocks looked like even if he _wanked_ five times every single bloody day!" Daphne was surprised at the sound of her own voice; she almost sounded like Hermione Granger speaking about half-breed rights and changing the Old Order . . . except for the Fudge wanking part. "Plus, I'm not sure that Scrimgeour's much better with focusing on the foundations of our prejudices.

"It's high time that we stop living with our heads in the sand. Don't you want to be an informed, intelligent wizard? Don't you want to question why things _have_ to be this way or that way? You of all people—"

"_Shut it!_"

"Well? You're _gay,_" Daphne whispered. "Or at the very least bisexual. You might be pure-blood, but you also don't fit the status quo either, Blaise."

She watched him as he averted his eyes to the ground, refusing to look at her.

"Just read this stuff, or glance through it, okay? Do it for Carmichael. Do it for _yourself_." She ended her statement with a passionate whisper.

He snorted. "Salazar's bollocks, you're bloody stubborn, Daphne."

"Why do you think Carmichael put it on me to talk to you? He knows I'm relentless and cunning." She grinned slyly. "It's one of the reasons I'm in Slytherin."

Blaise looked at her, his eyes flashing in desperation, like he was struggling with something internally.

"Fine, I'll flip through this crap, okay? If it takes me any longer than two hours, I'm hunting you down to provide me with a complete and thorough summary. Idiot."

Daphne grinned, as widely as her mouth would let her. "Blaise, I could kiss you, right now."

"I thought you went for twiggy, Ravenclaw nerds. Who're straight," Blaise said wryly.

Daphne's face fell.

"Hm. Things not going good?"

Daphne cocked an eyebrow; Blaise actually sounded concerned for her.

"Well, we're friends, Michael and I are. But I had to be honest and straightforward with him about . . ." she gestured to Blaise.

"You _didn't_!"

Daphne waved her hands, a bit frantic. "Godric, no! I only told him I've blackmailed people, not who or with what." She watched as Blaise sighed in relief.

"Well, that's good, I guess. You seem to have turned into Little Miss Honest lately."

Daphne pulled her hair back with her hands. "Just trying something new, okay? That's all."

"What would that be?"

"I guess just being myself . . . whatever 'being myself' means."

"_Zabini_!"

Both Daphne and Blaise turned at the sharp sound of Draco Malfoy sneering, self-important voice. He was, of course flanked by Crabbe and Goyle _and _Parkinson. Daphne took a good, long look at Malfoy and Parkinson's faces.

She was shocked to see both teenagers looking awful. Malfoy looked like he had lost quite a bit of weight, and now faintly resembled an Inferius. His skin looked like it was grey and chalky, and the dark circles under his eyes did nothing to lessen his resemblance to a walking and talking skeleton.

Daphne had noticed Parkinson's decline in appearance as well. She had neglected to cut or trim her hair, and had gone without her customary nail color of blood red for a few months. Now, she looked tired, maybe not quite as tired as Malfoy, but definitely fatigued and unrested.

She then remembered Parkinson had been having nightmares for a few nights and Tracey Davis had been comforting her at times. Daphne had taken to putting up Sound Muffling Charms around her space, so the moaning and keening sounds Parkinson made wouldn't travel to interrupt her own "pleasant" slumber. She'd even taken to doing the same for Bulstrode; the girl had actually remembered her more lady-like manners and thanked her for her trouble.

Daphne suddenly felt a pang in her chest, and realized, with an odd pang, that she'd had a momentary bout of compassion for her little Slytherin rival.

(_Well, we all know how well you comforting Parkinson went last time._)

Blaise narrowed his eyes. "What do you want, Malfoy?" he sneered.

The ferret gave a little start. Shaking his head, he muttered, "We're going down for dinner. We just wanted to know if you wanted to join us. Doesn't seem like you have anything more _important _to attend to."

He shot a pointed look toward Daphne. She slanted her eyes at the blond prat.

"Daphne, you're coming to dinner?" Blaise asked her. She looked at him with a smirk, and cocked her eyebrow at him.

"Of course, Blaise. Shall we?"

Blaise and her rose up and walked toward the group of Slytherins, all of whom had equally disgusted looks on their faces as they walked past them.

As she passed Malfoy, Daphne saw him wince, and grab his wrist, wringing it like he was in pain. Parkinson reached for him. "Draco?"

"_I'm_ _fine_, Pansy."

"Is it your—" Daphne heard Pansy whispering to Malfoy. He shushed her.

"Not _here_. Not with _her_."

Somehow, Daphne sensed that Malfoy had just nudged his head toward her. "We'll talk later."

"You two going to keep us from eating?" Blaise asked the two whispering Slytherins.

As they both muttered unintelligibly, Daphne felt her heart beating quickly, and followed Blaise Zabini out of the dungeon door.


	28. Chapter 27: Slytherins and Sectumsempra

**A/N: **Hey, while you are at it, and if ya haven't checked it out yet, I have a new story up, called _**Ten Birthdays**_, focused on Hermione. The story was written for The Reviews Lounge Birthdays Challenge and is different from my other writings, so I'd definitely love feedback. As for my next "_**A Second Thought**_" one-shot, I'll close the poll on the 20th. Right now, there's a three-way tie for first . . . and I'm kind of (pleasantly) surprised at the ones that got picked :0) I hope to have one done by the end of this month, and I'll continue on the series when I start posting my sequel. I think now it's three more chapters until the end. Crazy!

This chapter's rated T for strong language. I own nothing at all! Thanks to stella8h8chang for her help with this! I really appreciate it ;-)

* * *

**Chapter 27: Slytherins, **_**Sectumsempra**_**, and Snogging**

"_Psst_!"

Ron stopped walking; he was in the middle of his prefect patrols and hadn't really expected to encounter anything more severe than some snogging teenagers.

He looked around, thinking for sure he was hearing things . . .

"_Looktuyerleft . . . Looktuyerleft . . . _"

(_What the bloody hell?_)

Ron turned to his left. He saw a tapestry with an oddly-shaped, short-person bulge, and . . .

"Daphne?"

"_Quiet! _Don't draw attention to us." The Slytherin hastily beckoned Ron over to join her under the tapestry.

Torn between grimacing and laughing his fool-head off, Ron could only shrug in disbelief, as he strolled toward the tapestry.

"Okay, er . . . whassup?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Ron. Don't gape."

" I'm not gaping . . . just completely shocked. I thought you weren't talking to us."

"Well," Daphne snorted in frustration, "I'm talking now, right? Look," she turned Ron to face her. "Okay, so I asked a source that tells me he's seen a snake — a black _moving_ snake — tattooed on Malfoy's wrist."

"Great. Good for the ferret . . ."

"Remember what I told you, Harry and Hermione about Dark Marks, either full or partial?"

"Er, right . . . _oh_ – Merlin's sweaty buttocks!"

"That could be a rather appropriate sentiment at this time, yes."

Ron shook his head and peered at Daphne. "Wait. Why now? How did you find out?"

Daphne shrugged and lifted her eyebrows, seemingly hesitant to say exactly how she found out. After a moment, she puffed her cheeks out and glanced at Ron. "Blaise Zabini."

Ron's face did a little jig of disbelief. "The bloke you're blackmailing told you that Malfoy's got himself a moving tattoo of a snake?"

"Well, I guess Blaise and I are friends . . . or something."

A grin broke out on Ron's face. "Look at you, winning everyone over with your brilliant personality. _Or_ coercion."

Daphne smacked him a bit too hard to be playful across the chest. Ron chortled.

"Stop it, you prat! What are we gonna do about Malfoy?"

"Well, it changes things a bit, doesn't it?" Ron said, scratching his chin. "He's clearly in some evil shit now." Ron breathed for a bit. "All right, let's tell Harry 'bout it. I'm sure he'll want to go to Dumbledore." With that, they started walking to Gryffindor Tower.

It was the first time Daphne had been around Harry since February — Ron was fairly sure of that. He kept looking at her; she seemed nervous and unsure of what to do. She kept rubbing her clothes with her palms.

"Dammit," she muttered to herself.

Ron looked over at her. "What?"

"M-my hands . . . clammy, is all." Daphne wiped them on her skirt, as they stopped in front of the Gryffindor portrait hole, and, of course, the Fat Lady in a poofy pink dress ("Us _Portraits_ aren't in the business of just letting _anyone_ in!" she huffed). Daphne busied herself while trying to dry them off. She looked up as Ron gave a small cough to get her attention. She shot him an utterly confounded look.

"Wha— ?"

"Okay, so, this is a door, which goes into a room. You're supposed to step _through_ the door for the whole process to work—"

Daphne glared at him. "Aren't you gonna tell Harry and Hermione?"

"Nope. You are." And with that, Ron put a palm firmly on her back and shoved her into the Gryffindor common room.

"Oh, sweet Merlin . . . oh, sweet Merlin . . ." he heard her muttering.

"Relax," Ron said, but he couldn't ignore the looks and stares and gasps of shock and disapproval from the other Gryffindors upon seeing this new interloper.

"Ignore them. Just ignore them." He guided her over to a corner, stopping himself from smiling as he heard her stomach give a great rumble.

"Hungry or nervous, eh?"

Daphne just shook her head, soundlessly.

"All right, Harry's not here. But he might be upstairs . . ."

"Ron?" They turned around to see Hermione coming up to them. "Why does everyone look like they're ready to kill . . . _Daphne?!_"

"Hermione," Ron interrupted. "Stay here while I go grab Harry, okay?" He didn't wait for an answer from Hermione, as he darted toward the dormitory stairs . . . only to find Harry himself jogging down towards the common room.

"Seamus practically blasted our dormitory door off its hinges, saying we'd been invaded—"

"Harry, Daphne's here. She's got information," Ron got out in a breath.

Harry ran down the stairs, and found himself face to face with Daphne. Ron noticed Daphne most resolutely _not _looking at Harry. Snapping his fingers in front of her face, he got her attention.

"Daphne?"

"Yeah, er . . . h-hi, Harry," she said, very sheepishly. "Erm, so I'm here to . . . to, uh, tell you," she coughed, "okay, I was sort of able to convince Blaise Zabini to tell me that Malfoy has what appears to be a partial Dark Mark on his arm." Daphne stopped talking, glancing up at Harry, who looked like he had stopped breathing.

"Malfoy's got the Mark?" Harry asked her directly.

Daphne shook her head. "_Partial _Mark. It's a snake, or rather a black outline of a snake . . . that moves." Ron nudged her to go on. "I know the Dark Mark tattoo moves, so I'm putting two and two together and," she gave an open-handed gesture, "there you go. I've only been able to ask Blaise about it recently . . . he's been opening up to me a bit more about, er, things." Daphne shrugged. "I didn't feel right forcing him to tell me before, um . . . at the beginning of the year, but he may be rethinking his views of the wizarding world."

Ron saw Hermione smiling and patting Daphne on the shoulders. "You really, _really _did a wonderful job, Daphne." Hermione looked at Harry, giving him a Look. Harry shook himself out of whatever reverie he was currently in to address Daphne.

"There're really no words . . . Thank you." Harry started walking to the door, but he stopped. "Daphne, I'm going to Dumbledore. You coming with me?"

She looked at Harry, Ron and Hermione, unsure of what to say. Ron nudged at her again. "Go on . . . we _know_ you're not mute. You should go to Dumbledore with Harry."

Ron and Hermione watched as a sea of angry-looking Gryffindors parted, letting Harry pass with the Slytherin girl who had, without ceremony or _their_ permission, encroached upon their safe haven.

"Well," Ron said to Hermione, a grin spreading across his face, "that went well."

* * *

Harry grunted with frustration when they got to Dumbledore's office.

"Dammit!" He said, a fist hitting the wall. "Not here . . . of course."

"Can we send him a message?" Daphne asked, hand on the statute, as if human contact would somehow unlock it.

Harry shook his head. "He's probably on a mission or something." He turned back toward his companion. "I'll try again later." Harry looked at her — really looked at her — for the first time since February. In class, she'd usually tried hunching behind Blaise Zabini or retreating into her robes like a sullen turtle. She was fine talking to Hermione, but somehow she had taken to avoiding both Ron and him. Daphne looked tired, worn down. Much to Harry's surprise, she seemed pale too — her normally olive-tinged skin appeared to have lost some of its pigment, like she was constantly around things that were draining her energy or her spirit away.

So, it made her blushing upon the first time seeing Harry since her breakdown quite visible. Harry had to choke back a chuckle watching her face go beet red. It simply wasn't an appropriate time to point out whatever awkwardness she might have been harboring about her admission of feelings for him.

"Hey, I'll tell Dumbledore what you told me. And I'll tell him how I found out, and how _you_ found out."

Daphne snorted. "Probably pat himself on the back for that. I keep proving the barmy git right or something."

Harry shook his head. "It's not about proving Dumbledore right. It's about you. All he ever wanted to do was give you the chance to show yourself what you're capable of."

"Which is betraying my own house, apparently. Getting Blaise to turn on them as well. Also, finding about three or four other little snakes that don't think _you're_ a total idiot—"

"Daphne, stop." Harry held up a hand. "There's one thing I've come to realize in knowing you. We can't continue thinking _all_ Slytherins are bad or evil. Yeah, you were sorted into a House that has the unfortunate reputation of having graduated Voldemort, but there are good and bad people in every House. You get that, right?"

Daphne only looked at him, and gave a small nod.

"You didn't tell anyone about my private lessons with Dumbledore, did you?"

Harry saw Daphne gulp, and with a guilty tremor in her voice, she squeaked out, "N-no, I didn't tell anyone. But, Harry, I wanted to." She looked up at him briefly, before averting her eyes toward the floor. "I wanted to hurt you, and hurt Dumbledore because I felt like he manipulated me, and there were a lot of times I wanted to set up a meeting with Malfoy . . ." Daphne brought her hands up to her face, rubbing her palms on her skin vigorously. "I even wrote out a note, and was going to send it off, but I _Incendioed_ it just before I was about to tie it to the owl I was going to use." Daphne looked back up at him. "Harry, I was so pissed, so . . . so _angry_ because you'd thought I was disgusting, you wouldn't return my feelings because I was so much like Voldemort, but, after all that, I found out y-you already knew . . ." Daphne said, her voice fading slightly.

She took a breath, and Harry allowed her to continue.

"D'you want to know what stopped me? Why I didn't send that note to Malfoy?"

Harry nodded.

"_Ron_. I swear to Merlin it was Ron who stopped me," Daphne held her hand up, like she was solemnizing a vow and Harry couldn't stop a chuckle from escaping. "I just kept thinking about everything we'd — Ron and I — went through to finally get that trust going, and I couldn't go through with it." Daphne shook her head. "I thought about what his face would look like if he found out I told Malfoy about your lessons, what he would say to me, and the thought he might turn his back on me . . . that his whole _family _might turn his back on me and end up hating me. And thinking of that hurt and bothered me so much . . ." Daphne faded away. Harry couldn't stop his grin from spreading.

"Tell him and _die_, Potter." Harry raised his hands, acquiescing to Daphne's request.

She continued. "And then, more than anything, I hated myself because I thought about everyone I had hurt over the years and everything I'd ever said or did and all I saw of myself was that I was a bad, bad person and I was like _him_, and I didn't — I _shouldn't _— have friends, and I definitely shouldn't let the 'Golden Trio'," she said with a sarcastic head shake, "into my life—"

"Stop, stop, just seriously . . . stop right there, okay?" Harry held up his hand and took a breath, grinning slightly. "You and Ron. Mrs. Weasley was right," Harry said, with a chuckle. Daphne furrowed her brow in confusion. Clearing his throat, Harry spoke. "Dumbledore meddled in your life, true. It's what he does. But, I think that his heart was in the right place. He saw the good in you, okay? He saw the good in you and what you wanted, and _he wanted_ to give it to you. He wanted to show you what a life full of love is like. I got that chance, Daphne, and you should have it too."

Shaking her head rather quickly, Daphne crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, which she noticed were getting wet.

"Dammit," she muttered, rubbing her eyes with the palm of her hand. "Does a life full of love also include crying like a little girl?" she said sarcastically holding out her now wet palms. Harry could only laugh. She sighed. "Still, Harry. I came awfully close to giving you away—"

"But you _didn't_," Harry said, with a smile. Suddenly, the voice of the Headmaster floated into Harry's head, from almost two years ago, in memory of a very special boy . . .

("_ . . . the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy_ . . .")

Harry pushed his glasses back up on his face and he looked at Daphne.

"It would have been easy for you to make yourself feel better and told Malfoy about my lessons with Dumbledore?"

She looked at him, her eyes still wet. She shrugged.

"It would've been easy for you to _not_ have joined the DA, to not have gone with us to the Ministry, to _not_ have helped us as much as you have tried to this year. I'm right, aren't I?"

She turned her eyes to the ground, and shuffled her feet awkwardly. "So what?" she mumbled.

"You made the choice of what you thought the right thing to do was, Daphne. And your choice? Makes you as different from Voldemort as Dumbledore himself is. And, just to make sure you know . . . all the things that got you into Slytherin? Pretty damn good qualities if I do say so myself. I know a few people that share them that aren't Slytherins at all." Harry grinned at her. Daphne snorted out a small laugh.

Suddenly, an unbidden thought popped into Harry's head, and he realized, with a jolt that he should tell Daphne exactly what he was thinking.

"Have you ever heard of a man named Peter Pettigrew?"

She shook her head. "Can't say it rings a bell."

"Well, he was friends with my dad, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin. He was also a member of the Order and the Secret-Keeper for me and my parents when we had to go into hiding from Voldemort, when I was a year old." Harry paused here, but continued to look at Daphne directly. "Everyone thought it was Sirius Black who was my family's Secret Keeper, but my mum and dad changed it to Peter because no one would think of him. Peter betrayed my family to Voldemort. He told Voldemort where my parents lived and that's how _he_ was able to kill them."

She sucked in a breath. "That's awful, Harry."

He could only nod. "He framed Sirius Black for that, and made it look like Sirius killed all those Muggles. Put him away in Azkaban for 12 years."

Daphne looked at the ground, shaking her head in disbelief. "Let's see . . . cunning, ruthless, ambitious — if only to move up within Voldemort's ranks — self-serving . . . sounds like your parents snagged themselves a Slytherin for a friend," she stopped and looked back up at Harry, her brow creased, "or not . . . if this is where I think you're going . . ."

"Peter was in Gryffindor with the rest of my father's friends and my mum."

It took a few moments for the shock to register on her face. "He – was – in – _Gryffindor_?"

"He was in Gryffindor, yeah."

Daphne let out a low whistle. "I was gonna say I thought he was in Ravenclaw . . . _wow_!"

"Do you see what I mean, though?" Harry spoke in a low, urgent-sounding tone, and leaned in towards her. "It's not our houses that make us who we are. I have a shitload of qualities that would've put me in Slytherin. Hell, the Sorting Hat almost made me one of your house-mates our first year. It's who we are that makes us—"

"Who we are, by chance?" she finished with a smirk.

"Well, yeah. But not only our past, but also what we choose to do, right? Along with everything else he's ever taught me, that was probably the biggest lesson I learned from Dumbledore, oddly enough."

Daphne had a thoughtful look on her face. "I'm starting to see your point. Look, I hate to cut this little bonding session short, but I'm going to get back to Slytherin before they release the flying monkeys . . . or whatever they do to turncoats."

(_Eh . . .?_)

"I'm screwing with you, Harry." She pivoted sharply, and started walking away in deliberate steps. Just before she got to the edge where the hallway met the staircase, she turned to face Harry.

"I — well, thanks, Harry. I understand what you're trying to tell me." Daphne gave him a small, lopsided smile, and waved at him over her shoulder as she stepped off toward Slytherin House.

* * *

A few nights later, several things happened in quick succession in the Slytherin common room that Daphne never saw coming.

The first was a flurry of activity just by the doorway to the dungeons. She had her back turned to all of it, but kept turning around to see what was going on. Thankfully, Blaise Zabini was sitting in front of her, so he was able to provide the necessary running commentary on the events as they transpired.

"Okay, so Crabbe and Goyle are running around like a pair of confounded gorillas . . . They're muttering something to Pansy . . . 'Hospital Wing'? They're saying something about Draco . . . It sounds like he's been hurt . . . Oh _balls_, what's Snape doing here?"

She spun around. Sure enough, Blaise was correct in that Professor Snape had just entered the dungeon, looking angrier than Daphne had ever seen him. He pulled Parkinson aside, and said something to her in a low, inaudible voice. When he was finished, Professor Snape looked around for Daphne herself. When he located her at one of the common room's study tables, he narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously, turned on his heels and stormed out through the door.

"The hell was that about?" she asked to no one in particular.

Daphne barely registered the movement out of the corner of her eyes. Turning to her right, she saw Pansy Parkinson running angrily toward her. As she came up to Daphne, Parkinson drew her fist back, and pulled up the unsuspecting Slytherin girl by her hair with surprising strength.

"Your _precious_ Potter's going to pay for what he did to Draco!" Parkinson screamed at her. Through the pain the other girl was causing her, Daphne saw huge tears rolling down her face and realized that Parkinson was reaching near-hyperventilation levels with her sobbing.

"P-Pansy, I don't—"

"_Fuck_ _you_!" With that, she hit Daphne squarely in the nose. Blinding pain seared through her head, but, somehow, she managed to catch herself on the table before she hit the ground. She realized she had felt her nose break, and somewhere, in the distance, she sensed, rather than heard, somebody getting up out of a chair.

"Pansy, _don't_! Stop right now!" Opening her eyes, watering through the pain, Daphne looked ahead of her and saw Blaise Zabini picking up a screaming and squirming Pansy Parkinson by one arm. She was kicking at him and the noises coming from her were reaching banshee-levels of volume and incomprehensibility.

"She did _this_ . . . you know who she's friends with . . . Draco _nearly_ _FUCKING_ _DIED_!" It was all Daphne could make out from her. Stumbling . . . trying to find her footing . . . trying to focus on what was going on around her despite her head feeling like a troll sat on it. She looked at Parkinson and Blaise, holding her nose, trying to catch the blood and snot gushing out of it.

"What do you mean, Draco nearly died, Pansy?" Blaise asked while continuing to restrain her.

"Why don't you ask her? Perhaps she's been teaching Potter _Cutting Curses_! That's some Dark Magic for you."

"Pansy, I'bbe been here de whole bloddy time. I'bbe go' no idea wha' you're ta'ing about."

"HARRY POTTER TRIED TO KILL DRACO!"

Silence fell across the Slytherin common room, broken only by Pansy Parkinson's hysterical sobbing. She collapsed against Blaise, bawling into his chest.

"Wha'?' Daphne barely recognized her own voice; of course, it could've been because her nose was broken and she sounded like she was speaking in a wind tunnel.

"Harry Potter is a _murderer_, Greengrass," Parkinson said menacingly, wiping at her face. She pushed off Blaise, who followed closely behind her, ready to restrain her should she jump on Daphne again. "He found Draco, who was alone and vulnerable in a bathroom, and he cursed him with some Cutting Spell." Parkinson turned around to speak to the entire Slytherin common room. "Harry Potter cut Draco so badly he almost died. Snape said Draco nearly bled to death." Parkinson spoke loudly, just a couple of clicks below shouting. "Ask the ghost on the second floor — Myrtle, I think her name is. She was there; she saw it. Potter has Draco's _blood_ _on_ _his_ _hands_!" Parkinson turned her focus on Daphne, pointing directly at her, her chin trembling. "She helped him. She taught him the spell that almost killed Draco." Parkinson turned back to address the whole of Slytherin House now. "_She's – a – traitor_!"

"I dibbn't do anydding!" Daphne shouted desperately. She worried that her now-very-broken and now-very-much-bleeding nose rendered her words incomprehensible. "I nebber taught Podder anydding . . ." She was shouting now. "I've nebber been more serious."

Parkinson snorted derisively. "We all know how attached you are to the Gryffindors. You run to them, licking their shoes, begging to be a part of them." Parkinson spoke only to Daphne now. "You won't be sleeping in our room anymore, Greengrass. I don't give a _fuck _where you lay yourself or your trash, but it won't be in your bed." Pansy gave her a sneer, and turned away. She walked toward the dungeon door.

"I will send Draco your best," she said to the whole of Slytherin. She gave one final murderous gaze to Daphne, and walked out of the room.

Silence filled the air. Daphne looked around at the rest of her house, eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and disgust. She quickly found her chair, and realized that she had dripped blood all over the front of her jumper and shirt. As she tried to stem some more of the bleeding, she heard a chair pull up next to her.

"You're a mess, and you can't go to the Hospital Wing right now. Not with Pansy on the warpath. Lift your head up." She felt two hands pulling her hands away from her face

"Blaise?" she asked, but she complied. She heard the crumpling of parchment.

"Keep this on your nose," Blaise said calmly, as he grabbed his wand out of his bag. "I'm going to fix it."

"Wha'. Y-You c-c-can't fi'—"

"The good thing," Blaise said, as he came back around the table, "about me being in a secret relationship with a someone aspiring to be a Healer is that he's taught me all sorts of Healing Charms. Now remove the parchment." Blaise aimed his wand at her nose. "_Episkey_."

A sharp, painful snap and Daphne started moving her nose gingerly. She touched it on either side with her fingers and wiggled it around a bit. It felt as good as new.

"Thanks." Daphne watched as Blaise sat in front of her. "Wait . . . Carmichael wants to be a Healer? He doesn't want to take over '_Constance Carmichael's Quick-Clean_' product empire?"

Blaise nodded his head, chuckling slightly. "And his mother will probably shit a full-grown Lethifold if she ever finds out, so quiet."

Daphne snorted in amusement, but, after a moment, her face fell. "You believe me, Blaise. I never taught him anything, if he did what Parkinson said he did . . ."

Blaise nodded, albeit reluctantly. "I believe you, okay. But why would he attack Draco?"

She just stared at him. "You're serious? They're not exactly the best of friends."

"But to use a Cutting Curse of some sort? He almost killed Draco . . ."

Daphne shook her head. "It . . . I dunno, Blaise. It doesn't seem like him."

Blaise snorted. "Well, you'd know."

She wiped at her face. "How do I look?"

"Like skrewt's balls."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Thanks for that, Zabini."

* * *

The next morning, Harry didn't even have time to sit at the Gryffindor table for breakfast, before he was literally assaulted by the short and angry Slytherin girl, just outside the Great Hall.

"Did you hurt Draco Malfoy?" Daphne had stormed up to him, practically knocking Harry over with a thunderous look.

He found himself at an utter loss for words. And his silence gave Daphne her answer.

_SMACK_!

"You have _no_ idea what I went through," she said in a furious, shaky voice, as Harry rubbed his stricken cheek. "I was accused of teaching you that spell, kicked out of my own dormitory, had my nose broken by Pansy Parkinson, and now _everyone_ in Slytherin hates me as much as they hate _you_." Each word Daphne uttered, Harry could hear her total disgust and anger with him.

(_Godric, that hurts . . . and not just my face either . . ._)

He tried to talk to her, "Daphne . . . I didn't know what the spell would do . . . I'm sorry . . . I've got detentions for an eternity now . . ."

"You didn't know? _You didn't know?_" her voice ratcheted higher and higher. "Why the hell would you use a curse that you didn't know what it would do or how would it work? This was one of the _brilliant_ Prince's ideas, right? One of those little ditties tucked away in the margins?"

"_Quiet_!" Harry whispered, gesturing with his hands for her to keep quiet.

"I – don't – care! I bloody _want _people to know that I had nothing to do with this. I'm _thisfuckingclose_," she said, holding her index finger and thumb up to Harry's face, as if she were about to pinch him, "to dragging you back into Slytherin and announcing to my entire house exactly where you got the bloody spell, and then demonstrating it on you. _In. Person._"

"Hey, " Ron and Hermione jogged up to Harry and Daphne. "What's going on?"

She was panting after having yelled herself out rather thoroughly. Harry saw her face, bright red and more livid than he'd ever seen on her before. Daphne ripped her eyes away from him, and pushed past Ron and Hermione. She stomped toward the Great Hall.

"Daphne?" Ron started.

"Fuck off!" she spat out and they saw her take a seat at the Slytherin table, with the rest of her House eyeing her very suspiciously.

Ron and Hermione turned around slowly to face Harry. He felt awful, and not just because of his cheek which he was sure was turning spectacularly purple. Hearing the impact of his altercation with Malfoy on Daphne with the other Slytherins practically drowned him in new wave of guilt and he groaned into his hands as Ron and Hermione asked him what exactly happened between him and Daphne. All he could do as they entered the hall to eat breakfast was mumble a short summary of what had transpired between him and Daphne to his two best friends and fake a small amount of enthusiasm when Ron and Ginny tried to talk about the upcoming Gryffindor - Ravenclaw match with him.

Which, he pondered, was going to be an absolutely terrible day for him. . . .

* * *

. . . Or maybe, not as terrible as he thought.

Sure, the entire _week_ had been rough for Harry. Aside from the glares every single Gryffindor _and_ the team managed to throw at him for getting himself in a whole mess of detentions that interfered with Quidditch, Harry had tried doing everything he could think of to apologize to the one short, angry Slytherin girl that he'd come to think of as a friend. Daphne resolutely ignored him. She started talking more and more to Hermione and Ron, but when he would try to pop up to say something, she'd get a scowl across her face and storm away.

Hermione was in no hurry for the Slytherin girl to forgive Harry. "Well, to be honest, she was hurt very badly by Pansy Parkinson. And you shouldn't use curses that you have no idea of the effects the spell will have. The very definition of curse is that it causes physical damage to an object or person—"

"_Hermione!_" All three teenagers turned around to see a red-faced Ginny Weasley glaring at Hermione. "Harry was trying to defend himself with Malfoy, who was about to bloody throw an Unforgivable at him. What else was he supposed to do?"

"I-I don't know." Hermione looked utterly shocked at Ginny's temper being directed at her. "He could've used _Expelliarmus_ or _Petrificus_ _Totalus_ or something like that."

"Well, he didn't, and Harry's already getting punished far enough by teachers and by some of the students, so lay off of him!" Ginny snapped. Hermione could only gape as the youngest Weasley turned sharply around and stalked away.

Ron could only look at his sister. "Er, why don't we do some, uh . . . homework? Hermione?"

Hermione, who'd been dumbly gaping after Ginny left, simply moved to her bookbag without a single word and started pulling out parchments and quills.

Harry sat, torn between shock and a wonderfully uplifting feeling in his chest at Ginny's indignation on his behalf. She had broken up with Dean a few weeks ago (_thanks Felix!_) and now, here she was defending him . . . passionately . . . to _Hermione!_

Ginny, he thought, had been great throughout the whole last week. She and Ron seemed to be the only members of the Gryffindor team that didn't throw him dirty looks every time he passed by. Ginny never brought up the detentions, nor did she bring up the fight with Hermione; he noted that the following day after their argument, he saw both girls in the corner of the common room, talking quietly, with Ginny giving Hermione a hug. Every moment Harry spent with her, she'd do her best impressions of Ron in practice or Snape in class. She'd never seem to fail to have something truly funny, truly _Weasley_ to say to him.

It only served to make him like her so very much more.

But the black marks on his week continued. Of course, there had been detention with Snape. And yeah, he had been made to organize and rewrite punishment cards, seventy-five percent of which seemed to be focused on his father and the Marauders.

He came back to the common room, only to find out that Gryffindor had won the bloody match! Ron held up the Quidditch Cup.

And Harry found his lips planted firmly on Ginny Weasley!

And Ron hadn't beaten him to a pulp.

(_Score one for Harry Potter! I RULE!!_)

Harry and Ginny had barely managed to stumble out of the castle to find a secluded spot near a tree right next to the lake, before they continued on with what they had started in the common room.

Harry's hands tangled in her long and thick red hair, already unspooling from her tight ponytail from the game and frolicking with Harry at the after-party. _This_ kiss Harry savored, and although he didn't have much to compare it to, he stifled a chuckle in remembering the utter _wetness_ his first kiss with Cho was last year. Harry squirmed slightly as a tingle started from his toes, to his ankle, traveling up his leg to his kneecaps, and bypassing his thigh, and went straight to his . . .

"_Ginny_!" Harry let out a breath of exclamation. He popped his lips off of her and looked at her with a small smile spreading on his face. "Damn, I've waited way too long to do that."

"Yes you have, Harry Potter," she said with a cheeky smile. She moved toward him to continue their snogging, but Harry pulled away slightly.

"What do you mean, 'yes I have'?" Harry asked her, grinning.

"Well, I mean, _Potter_, is that I reckoned, with the way you've been gaping at me over the last couple of months, is that you sort of thought I was . . ." Ginny trailed off, smiling and searching for the exact right words.

"What? Totally beautiful, funny . . . er, bloody awesome? Wicked?" She playfully smacked him.

"Godric, you sound like Ron, y'know. Been hangin' around him too much." Harry slumped back contentedly against a tree, his legs stretched out before him. Ginny lay by his side, stretched out lengthwise, her hand resting on his chest. He traced circles lazily on her shoulder.

"I've liked you for longer than this term," he said after a few moments of peace. She lifted her head up to look at Harry.

"Are you serious?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah," Harry grinned big. "I'm sort of a subtle bloke." Ginny returned his grin and rolled her eyes.

"I take it back. You're not taking after Ron after all," she laughed. "How long, then?"

"Honestly, since last summer, I think. When Ron had all of his nightmares and couldn't fly, and you and I were going out to the paddock most every day . . . I dunno, I guess I started noticing things." He took a lock of her silky red hair, wrapping it around his fingers, and continued talking, "how you laughed . . . your hair and how it sort of whips around you when you're up in the air like it's all fiery or something . . . how you love flying as much as me . . ."

"I feel free in the air, Harry," Ginny said, in a light, dreamy sort of voice, "I know it sounds totally mental, but I love freedom, I love feeling not confined to the ground." She looked at him, shaking her head. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm snogging Harry Potter. I can't be held responsible for what I might say."

Now, it was Harry who gave her a little playful pat on her upper arm. "Hey, we can stop if it'll bring back your coherence."

"Not on your _life_!" And with a little growl she pounced back on him.

Harry loved the way Ginny smelled and the way her lips tasted — some sweet and slightly spicy combination. He thought it reminded him of honeysuckle or jasmine with a woody aroma, like a freshly polished broomstick. He smiled against her lips and she smiled against his lips and he thought there couldn't be anything more fantastic, more spectacular than kissing Ginevra Molly Weasley over and over and over . . .

She broke away, coming up for air. "_Wow_! I'm kissing _Harry Potter_ . . . without having to give him a love potion!" she said in a little sing-song voice and did a little shimmy with her shoulders and her fists, her grin huge and truly excited.

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Don't get too excited. I'm still a pretty scrawny git."

Ginny tutted and hit him lightly on his chest. "You're my git, though, now!"

"_Hey_!"

Ginny arched her eyebrow. "Really, Harry. If you don't like what I'm saying," she said, in a very flirty voice, leaning toward him, "maybe you should find a way to _shut_," she kissed his left cheek,"_me_," she kissed his right cheek_,_ "_up_," she kissed his nose. Just as she pulled away, Harry lifted his head slightly, so his lips once again made that very happy journey to her lips and they snogged . . . snogged . . . _and_ snogged each other until the sun went down.


	29. Chapter 28: Spiraling Downward

**A/N**: Fans of The Bill Weasley . . . I finally got him in! It's brief, and it only took me 28 chapters, but The Bill makes an appearance here.

I own nothing, the story and characters are JKR's. Rated T for very strong language, mild violence. Thanks to stella8h8chang for her assistance with this chapter. Also, if you are so inclined, and haven't yet done so, I'm keeping my poll on my profile page open until April 20th. I'd love to hear from ya--and y'all who have voted have helped me move past my writer's block on a couple of the higher-ranked one-shots! So . . . yay for ya!

Two more chapters, folks!

* * *

**Chapter 28: Spiraling Downward**

Buoyed by his most successful . . .

(_Your only, Potter!_)

(_Oi! Shut up!_)

Buoyed by his _new_ relationship with Ginny Weasley, Harry walked around in an utterly lovesick daze after the Quidditch match. They wasted no time in finding rather _creative_ ways to make time pass between classes, after meals, in the evening, on afternoons of weekends . . .

(_Well, since there's no more Quidditch, it'd do us some good to find other ways to spend our time._)

Harry had strengthened his determination to make up with Daphne Greengrass now. He, Hermione, Ron and Ginny all cornered her right after dinner two days after the final match.

"Daphne . . . come on, now," Harry pleaded. "There's gotta be something I can do to make it up to you?"

Daphne scowled at him, "Well, I'd like to, but my _nose_ rather resents you at the moment. Also, I'm still bloody sleeping in our common room, like a savage." She turned her narrowed eyes toward each of the other Gryffindors in turn. Pursing her lips together, she looked back at Harry. "_Potter_ . . . do you remember my little Christmas present?"

Now, Harry was getting a bit worried, and he heard Ron and Ginny snickering. "Er, _sh-sur-re _. . ."

"I want you to wear it, instead of your school jumper. For one week. Anytime you're in the Great Hall, you'll wear it _without_ your cloak covering it, _and _you'll sit with your back facing Slytherin."

Harry groaned and covered his face with his hands. "There's nothing else I can do?" He looked between his fingers at Daphne, and he watched her shake her head.

"Ginny, make sure he wears it. All. The. _Time_. He needs to wear it while he's in your common room." Daphne smirked at him. "I might get Creevey to take pictures of 'Slytherin's Number One Fan' when you least expect it. Just to prove you're doing my bidding."

Harry glared as Ginny let loose a great chortle against his shoulder. He turned back around to Daphne.

"If I do this, we're fine, right?"

Daphne crossed her arms and grinned lopsidedly at him. "I'll consider it, Potter . . . I'll consider it."

After Daphne left, Ron smacked Harry on the back. "Harry," Ron said, "Think of it this way. You'll be paving the way for peace and prosperity among the Houses."

"Oi!"

"We're definitely gonna have to get Colin to take as many pictures as possible."

Ron quickly discovered that Harry's Seeker build could keep up with him as Harry chased Ron throughout the castle grounds. Hermione and Ginny laughed at the pair of them.

For the next week, Harry endured the onslaught of boos from the Gryffindors and jeering laughter from the Slytherins as he wore the jumper for practically twenty-four hours every day. The deal was made even more obnoxious because he could actually _hear_ the snakes coughing up their flowers with a slight gagging sound. When Snape asked him, "What in the name of Slytherin is _that – infernal – noise_, Potter?" Harry had no choice but to show the git Daphne's present, much to the twittering amusement of the entire class. Harry refrained from rolling his eyes as Snape smirked at him, the professor's dark, beady eyes drifting to Daphne, who sat prim and proper just behind Harry. Snape raised his eyebrow.

"I must ap-_plaud_ you, _Mister Potter_, for wearing such an _informative _article of clothing." Snape flashed a sardonic smirk to Harry. "_Sit_ down, and pay attention to the lesson." Snape turned back around and began writing on the board. Afterwards, Daphne approached him.

"See, a little more love of Slytherin, and you're avoiding detentions and point deduction left and right." Daphne sounded bright, but her face was _all_ smug sarcasm.

May seemed inordinately beautiful to Harry. He wasn't sure what the exact reasons were. Ron and Hermione were doing very well, what with kissing and teasing _and _snogging like mad. Ginny made time between her O.W.L. preparations for Harry . . . and those moments were totally, utterly, _completely _fantastic.

(_Just be grateful Ron can't perform Legilimency on you . . . if he knew what you were up to with his baby sister . . ._)

And Daphne seemed to be getting better around the trio again. Harry's compliance with Daphne's deal bought her some favor with the Slytherin girls. She told them that Millicent Bulstrode had held Pansy Parkinson back to let Daphne get to the bathroom and then fall asleep in her own bed. Snape, although he had been _extremely _irritable, had sent a message for Parkinson to come to his office. He must have said something very _persuasive_, because Parkinson had said and done nothing when Daphne walked up into the dormitory.

Daphne also started hanging around with them again while Harry walked around with Daphne's Christmas present, laughing and teasing them without that salty, off-color edge that her humor would normally get when she got nervous, frustrated or angry. And the improvements weren't simply on her end; there were a couple of times that Ron would brave the Slytherin table to sit with her when she normally would've eaten alone.

"I mean, it's just a bloody table. Shouldn't prevent any of us from eating with our friends," Ron said rather sagely.

Harry wondered aloud, "Who are you and what in the world have you done with Ron Weasley?"

Ron beaned him in the head with a common room couch pillow.

"Y'know," Ron started, while they were sitting in the common room one night, "it feels like it's too calm." He had one arm slung around Hermione's shoulders. Harry was sitting in a chair next to their couch, and Ginny was on the floor beneath him, lazily touching his trousered leg. Harry had finally started feeling truly content for once at school.

"How can something be too calm for you, Ron?" Ginny asked. "If that were the case, it wouldn't be moving at all."

Ron made a very ungentlemanly hand gesture to Ginny, which earned him a quick, playful slap from Hermione on his chest, and a laugh from Harry. Hermione settled back into him, and said, "I think I understand what you're saying, Ron. With everything that's gone on over the last couple of years, it feels like we're at this interlude of sorts. The 'calm before the storm'."

Harry idly nodded. "I see what you mean. We should be off somewhere, fighting or something, shouldn't we? It seems like we always end up in that position every single year."

"And not discussing who currently has a tattoo of a pink pygmy puff on their chest, right?" Ginny said with a raised eyebrow.

Ron pointed at her and narrowed his blue eyes, "Listen, _Gingersnap_—"

"Oooh, ladies and gents," Ginny wrung her hands in mock fear, "Ron's pulling out my old nickname. I think I've hit a nerve."

The others laughed as Ron's ears went vibrantly crimson. "_Ginevra_ . . ."

Ginny waved her hand dismissively at Ron. "I honestly have _no _idea how _that_ rumor got started." Ginny batted her eyelashes innocently. "Just have Hermione say you don't have anything on your chest. I mean, she'd know—"

"Or I'll just tell them you have Harry Potter's face inked on your bum."

The three Gryffindors turned and looked at Hermione, who was giggling into her hand. "What? Is there a rule that I can't take the mickey out of Ron too? In fact, I think I've _earned_ the ability to take the mickey out of you," she said to him.

"Oh, but _Miss_ _Gran_-_ger_," Ron said, in his near-perfect Snape-like imitation, "there's a price to pay for your _in_-solence."

"Ron? Ron, what're you doing . . . ? Ron? _Ron_!" And with that, Hermione gasped and screamed and giggled as Ron tackled her on the couch and proceeded to tickle the ever-living daylights out of her.

"Ginny! Over here and get her feet!" Ron said, as Hermione squealed in hysterical, breathless gasps.

Harry laughed as he watched the spectacle in front of him, with a niggling fear creeping from the back of his mind that all this laughter, all this joy, could come crashing down at any moment.

* * *

"I've got a funny feeling that one Miss Greengrass aced that final examination in Arithmancy."

Daphne stifled a funny little giggle as she felt the warm breath tickling her ear. She turned to her right and saw a grinning Michael Corner jogging up to walk in-step with her.

"Ah," she waved her hand in a dismissive manner. "I won't be one to argue with you. I'm fairly sure I did too."

"Seriously, never ever lose that humble nature of yours. You'd really do well to be a bit more confident about your lessons." Michael flashed her a nice, lopsided grin that made Daphne catch her breath.

(_Shit! Seriously, stop it. You're just friends now._)

"So," he started with the heavy tone of deliberate, almost-practiced curiosity, "what are your plans for the hols?"

Daphne looked over to Michael, who had a small smile poking from his lips and was keeping his eyes straight ahead. She shrugged, smiling herself.

"Oh, not too much, I guess. Ron said I'm free to stay at the Burrow, but I'd probably be roped into helping with the wedding."

"Wedding?"

Daphne nodded. "Yeah. Um, Ron's oldest brother's marrying Fleur Delacour. She was—"

"The Triwizard champion from Beauxbatons, yeah, I remember her." Michael gave a long, low whistle. "Bloke's got taste."

Daphne snorted. "Figures."

"What?"

"You think she's a looker because she's half-Veela."

Michael shrugged and nodded. "Well, yeah. From what I remember."

Daphne shook her head and muttered, "Red-blooded males . . ."

"But," Michael said, jogging in front of her, hand placed, palm-down, on his chest, "I'm also sensitive _and_ aware enough to know that you've got to look deeper, past appearances and everything. You've got to get to _know_ the person." Michael continued to smile in a way that made Daphne's chest feel like it was going to leap out of her body and do a quick cha-cha-cha on the stone floor of the castle.

"Well, I'm glad to hear you're so . . . _deep_ and . . . multi-_layered_."

"Daphne, hey." Michael scratched awkwardly at the side of his head. "Maybe we could start again, y'know? I mean, okay, I'm really not all right with the whole 'blackmailing' thing. That, seriously, to me, is just wrong."

Daphne swallowed and creased her brow. "Er, yeah. I know. I'm trying to fix things. Probably be one of the things I work on this summer — maybe try to get a job too." She looked up at Michael, whose eyes were soft and whose mouth was turning upward.

"It's odd, but you make me smile." Michael shrugged humorously. "You walk around like your pissed off or something with the world, and you make your sarcastic little remarks, and then I have to try that much harder to make you laugh. Which you do . . . eventually. But it's totally brilliant when you do, because you're entire body just shakes and it sounds like you're barking or something. It's the least girly thing I've ever seen and it's adorable." He shook his long, dark, shaggy hair out of his eyes; Daphne blushed and averted her gaze. "If there's one thing I've learned from the last couple of years, it's that people definitely aren't perfect, and I need to know that now so I don't keep running from things that might be pretty cool after all. It's better to just get everything out into the open, talk about it, and then go from there, right?"

Daphne swallowed. "What is up with all this touchy-feely stuff? I'm getting it from Ron, from Hermione, from Harry, and now—" she held her hand out toward Michael. She tried to sound annoyed, but there was no way. Michael's words — hell, Michael _himself _— got to her. He got to her in a way she wasn't quite ready to identify or fully understand yet.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she saw him looking at her with expectation and something akin to hope in his eyes.

Daphne let out a little awkward cough. "Um, I hear you," she said, looking up at him. "And, I've gotta say, I like a bloke who can talk music, who can make me laugh at the drop of a hat, and who's been totally upfront and honest with me. And you definitely fit all three criteria." He was smiling so broadly, and Daphne couldn't help smiling herself . . . but. . . .

"But—"

And Michael's face fell just that little bit.

"_But_, Michael, I'm sort of in this weird place right now . . . about me. You should be with someone who really likes themselves, y'know? Someone who's a lot better with dealing with some of the crap that keeps coming back up." Daphne chewed the inside of your cheek. "I'll be honest. I don't want to just be friends with you," she saw him smile, "but it's not fair to you to ask you to wait for me while I sort my shit out . . ." Daphne's voice drifted off as she saw Michael's frowning, but steady face. "Hell, I'll ask it anyways. Would you wait for me to get my shit together?" She raised one eyebrow and kept her eyes on him.

Michael gave a small, snorting laugh; Daphne could tell he was amused. "I'm no Seer, or anything, so I couldn't say I'll definitely be around when that time comes. We are in the middle of something really big, out there," he nudged his head toward the opening in the corridor, leading to that vast unknowable _something_ which Daphne reckoned he meant the war. She swallowed, and nearly felt her throat closing up as tears, once again, threatened to sting her eyes, and she looked away from Michael before he could observe her vulnerability. "All I can say is I'll be here, I'll take things slow with you. I'll write you tons over the summer, and we can see where we are when school starts up in the fall." Michael guided her face toward him with his hand. "That okay?"

Daphne felt herself nod.

"Well, my _Fair_ Greengrass," he held an arm out to her, "whaddya say we check out what's on the menu this evening in the Great Hall?" Daphne rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"So bloody melodramatic," she muttered, all while taking his arm.

* * *

Ron had never considered for a moment that he actually had the Sight. But, ever since the musing in the common room in front of Harry, Ginny and Hermione, ever since voicing aloud that things were 'too calm', Ron couldn't help feeling that a weight was pulling at his insides, and that somehow . . . at some point . . . it was all going to fall away.

And it looked like it would be tonight.

Ron knew that they had all missed something, something vitally important somewhere . . . maybe along the long stretch of corridor through which he and Hermione were now running . . . running . . . running to meet up at the room . . . to wait for whomever would show up.

Harry's cryptic words, filled with decisive apprehension and nervous tension, ran through his head . . .

"Find Ginny . . . tell her I'm sorry . . . I'll be with Dumbledore . . . I'll see her soon. Take the Felix and whomever you can gather up from the DC or, Hermione, use those coins from the DA. . . . Maybe people will come quicker if you use them . . . Use the Map . . . Find Malfoy _and_ Snape . . . he's doing it tonight . . . Room of Requirement . . ."

Ron and Hermione stopped in front of the room, and waited for what felt like a couple of minutes past _forever._ Ron looked at the Map, shaking his head.

"Malfoy's still not appearing on the Map anywhere, so he must still be in the Room, right?"

Hermione wrung her hands. "Did we do absolutely everything we could? To stop whatever he's planning?"

Ron shook his shaggy-haired head. "Honestly, I'm thinking the same thing myself." He shut his eyes, and took five deep breaths, counting down, silently and slowly from ten, in order to clear his mind . . . to calm his head . . . to simplify his thoughts . . . .

It was the same relaxation technique he had used over the summer when his sensory system got overloaded. Ron reckoned he'd need to have a clear head to deal with whatever would be coming out of that room.

They heard footsteps running toward them. Pulling out their wands, Ron and Hermione ducked behind a stone pillar, crouched down and peered around the edge. They breathed out in relief when they saw the three familiar heads of Neville, Luna and Ginny coming toward them.

"We felt our old DA coins go hot," Neville said, panting. "What's going on?"

Ron looked among the five teenagers, looked down the hall, and then looked back at the teenagers. "Wait . . . this is all?"

"I think a lot of the old DA members scrapped the coins once the DC got started. We really didn't need them anymore, y'know?" Ginny replied. "Plus, we were together in the Great Hall anyways."

Neville shrugged. "I like carrying the Galleon around, y'know, as a reminder of last year. Makes me feel lucky. It helps." Luna nodded in agreement.

Ron groaned and exhaled through his nose. He had to come up with some sort of plan, some sort of attack formation for whatever the hell was going to come out of the Room.

"Okay, Hermione, you and Luna go to Snape's office, and keep an eye on him . . ."

"Wait _one_ minute, Ron Weasley," Hermione started, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "What do you mean 'Hermione and Luna go watch Snape'? I'm not going _anywhere_—"

"We've got to split up — Malfoy's here and Snape's in his office." Ron spoke evenly, but firmly. "Snape won't suspect you of spying on him. You're a prefect, and you're quick with a story; tell him that you've got a question about an assignment or something." The volume of Ron's voice was creeping up steadily. "You can bullshit something good enough that it'll be believable—"

"_I_ can also fight." Hermione said sharply and rather loudly. "_You_ need me up here."

"Hermione—"

"I'll do more damn good here than down _there—_"

"_Hermione_—"

"Of course, it's typical . . . you'll think I'm in the way, or I – I'll somehow lose my wits or I'll mess things up. I'll have you know, Ron, that I've gotten much better at—"

"_Hermione!_" Ron grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a tiny shake to get her attention. "You and I _can't_ _fight_ together!" Ron felt his face softening and he loosened his tight grip on her shoulders, and he looked at her with pleading eyes and heavy breaths. "I can't focus on what's going to come out of that room if I'm protecting you too. Please, Hermione." Ron brought his hand up to her cheek and leaned into her. "It can't be like last year. You can't get hurt—"

"What about Snape? If he's involved, don't you'd think he'd try something?" Hermione's voice softened and she clutched at Ron's arms with her tiny hands. Ron started as she touched his skin, and quickly remembered the sock Harry had given him.

"Here," Ron thrust the bottle to Hermione, his hands shaking as he did so. "All of you need to take a sip of this." He addressed his sister, Luna and Neville as well.

"Is this Herclitus Extract?" Luna asked in her dreamy voice.

Her question was met with total silence.

"My father did an article on the Herclitus plant. It's supposed to give you incredible strength and make it twice as hard for your opponents to harm you—"

"Er, no," Ron said calmly. It's Felix Felicis."

"Oh, well, isn't that lucky?" came the Ravenclaw's reply.

"_Ri_-ight. Okay. Come here. There should be enough for all of us to have a few hours each of luck for, well, whatever we're gonna be encountering. All right," Ron said, and silently confirmed the drinking order with Neville with a stare and a nod. 'Hermione, Luna, and Ginny . . . you three are first. _No. Arguments._" Ron gave Hermione a stern look that served as the final word on the matter.

Hermione took the bottle and gave it to Luna, who passed it to Ginny, who simply stared at it.

"Well? Someone's gonna have to start drinking. Ginny? Go on then."

Ginny let loose a partly shaky, somewhat frustrated breath and looked at her brother. "I wish Harry was here. I wish I got to say good-bye to him. I wish I could've told him that I—" Ginny suddenly choked up, and her eyes watered slightly.

"You'll tell him when he gets back," Ron replied calmly. "Now, drink up."

The bottle of the Felix went around to each person. Ron had to force Neville to go ahead and take his turn after Luna; after exchanging words, and Ron whispering something to Neville, the other Gryffindor boy closed his eyes, and drank a small amount, but enough to be effective.

Finally, the bottle came back to Hermione and Ron.

"Do it, Hermione."

"Ron, there's not enough left for two," she said, shaking her head and breathing heavily. Ron saw that she was near crying.

"Luna's already taken the potion, and you've got to get to Snape's office. He's still there. I just checked the Map—"

"_Ron!_"

"_Do_ it, Hermione! Drink the damn thing and get downstairs!" Ron's voice ratcheted up to near-shouting levels. Hermione drank half of what was left in the bottle, barely a mouthful. Ron shook his head.

"Finish it, Hermione." She looked at him, her head still shaking, holding the bottle out to him.

Ron grabbed her, and hugged her tightly to him. Whispering into her ear, he said in his steadiest voice, even though he was shaking from his own fear, "I'll be here. I'll be safe. Hermione, _please_. Do this for me." He pulled away from her, and she finished the contents of the bottle, still crying.

"R-Ron—" she started.

"Go. _Now_." And with that, he turned from her toward Neville and Ginny and started pointing where he wanted them to go.

Suddenly, Hermione came around from behind him, grabbed his head in her hands, and kissed him full, on the lips, harder and more desperately than she had ever done before.

Ron could only respond by embracing her tightly and returning the kiss, albeit too briefly for him even in his own haste.

"I love you, Ron," she whispered against his lips and ran, pulling up even with Luna and taking a shortcut from the seventh floor to Snape's office.

* * *

"—Ron, where the bloody – _fucking_ – hell are you?"

"Ginny . . . I'm to your left, but dammit . . . watch your language."

"You're one to talk, and I'd say this is an absolutely appropriate time to swear—"

"Seriously, you two . . . argue _after_ we fight the Death Eaters."

"Sorry, Neville," came both Weasley siblings' sheepish responses in quiet voices.

The three Gryffindors had seen Malfoy peeking around out of the Room of Requirement and holding a shriveled appendage attached to nothing. As soon as they saw the ferrety rat poke his head out, Ron and Neville sprang toward him from the left and right, wands out, spells on the tip of their tongue. Ginny brought up the rear.

The second Malfoy spotted them, Ron saw the flecks of black powder leaving Malfoy's hands; before he knew it, the entire hall outside the Room of Requirement went totally black. No repeated shouting of "_Lumos_", "_Lumos Maximos_", "_Incendio_" or any other Illumination Charms could break through the light. Both Ron and Ginny whispered, practically simultaneously, "Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder."

"Dammit, Fred and George. _Ginny_?"

The teenagers were left groping around in the darkness for each other. Ron felt a small, smooth hand on his.

"Wait, Ginny." Ron's whispery voice practically echoed into the dark abyss just behind him. "Did you feel me? My hand's still where it was. Go back and put your hand where it was just a second ago."

"Yeah." Ginny grasped his hand, giving it a quick squeeze. "Okay," Ginny's voice was breathy and shook with her nerves. "I'm with Neville — wait . . . d'you hear that?"

Ron did indeed hear the quick, but thick, impact of boots on the stone floor, rushing past them, heavy breathing, and grunts and creepy, sinister laughter . . . and growling.

Growling that chilled him to the bone.

Growling that reached into his veins and curdled his blood . . . because there was something _human_ buried somewhere in that awful sound.

Growling that Ron had only ever heard one other time . . . when Professor Lupin had changed into a werewolf in third year.

Ron felt his heart racing . . . his adrenaline coursing through him, and he wanted to break off from Neville and Ginny, to attack them _now_ . . . now, when they were so close . . . before _they_ got the first chance to _Avada_ _Kedavra . . . _

(_In the present, Weasley . . . stay in the present . . ._)

Then, he saw it just up ahead, a sliver of light, illuminating the edge of the Peruvian Powder's limit. Ron gave Ginny's hand a squeeze.

"I can see where the powder stops. Keep to the walls, don't let go, and we'll reach them, okay?"

Ron clung to what he could feel of the stone wall, swallowing in large gulps, his eyes never leaving that little patch of light, which was slowly and steadily growing bigger.

His heart raced as he saw shadowy figures, running into the light, all big, hulking figures making awful noises, laughing, swearing, growling . . .

Malfoy and whomever he was with were so far ahead of Ron, Ginny and Neville . . . they would never catch them now . . . they were going so _bloody_ slow!

(_Hermione, please be okay._)

"Ron, we're almost there. I can see it!" Ginny whispered excitedly.

Almost there . . .

Almost there . . .

(_C'mon, you idiot! Keep going . . ._)

Almost—

"Mr. Weasley! Miss Weasley, Mr. Longbottom. _What –_ is – going – on? This hall is supposed to be lit at night." Ron jumped in shock as he came face to face with Professor McGonagall, Lupin, Tonks, and Professor Flitwick standing with their wands out. Pushing past all of them was a tall, redheaded bloke with an all-too familiar face. . . .

"Bill?" Ron asked in surprise. Ginny squealed and ran to hug her eldest brother.

"Ron, Ginny . . . what the hell's happening?" Bill asked sternly.

"It's Malfoy." Ron said darkly, looking among the adults. "He came out of the Room of Requirement with Fred and George's impermeable darkness powder and his Hand of Glory — that thing that gives light to the holder of it. Bill, I don't think he was alone. We heard people rushing past us, and they went in that direction." Ron pointed down the corridor.

Ron turned back and kept his eyes on Lupin, his gaze remaining steady and unwavering. "We heard growling, Professor. Growling that sounded like it came from a m- . . . animal . . ."

Lupin's jaw flexed and his nostrils flared; his body went rigid and Ron saw his wand hand grip the stick of wood until his knuckles turned white. Tonks put a hand on Lupin's shoulder to steady him. "Greyback," Lupin said clearly to everyone in the group. He strode out to the front. "There are Death Eaters in Hogwarts. We'll need to locate Severus. Minerva?"

McGonagall nodded and turned to Flitwick. "Filius go to Severus' office immediately and tell him. If you see any teachers, inform them that Hogwarts is under attack, gather any of the faculty that you can and find us straightaway."

With a single nod, Flitwick set off, faster than Ron thought he'd ever be able to move.

Lupin looked over the adults, pausing only momentarily on Ron, Neville and Ginny. With a small dip of his head, Lupin seemed to have made a decision to include the three teenagers, and Ron's stomach leapt up into his throat. "Right then," said their old Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, "we're off."

* * *

It only took two of McGonagall's Locator Spells and forcing Malfoy to run out of his darkness powder to catch up with their quarry in the corridor that led to the Astronomy Tower.

And only one second after that that the first Killing Curse was cast, missing Ron's head by mere inches.

"_Ron_!" Ginny screamed.

"Stay focused!" He yelled back.

This became more and more difficult as the stone surrounding the small band of Order forces started exploding into chalky dust around them. Ron stormed toward the source of the curses . . . but was pulled back by a very strong arm.

"Oh _h__ell_ _no_! I'm not going to tell Mum I let you go anywhere near this! You're staying here with Ginny and your friend," Bill gestured to Neville.

"But we led you to them, Bill!" Ron shouted desperately. They ducked out of the way of a blue curse that sailed just above their heads. "I _need_ to fight with you. I don't want anything to happen to _you_, you idiot!"

"Hate to break it to you, but I'm a fair duelist and a damn fine curse-breaker. This is my fight, Ron. I need to keep you three safe and out of harm's way. And they need me in there. So _stay_!"

"_BILL_! Hate to break up social hour but . . . _GET YOUR _FUCKING_ ARSE IN HERE NOW_!" Tonks yelled all the way down the corridor. Bill ran, leaving Ron panting. He felt pressure on his back dragging him toward cover.

"_Ron_!" Ginny shouted desperately. A stray curse hit the wall just behind Ron, causing a chunk of wall to blow apart and Ron to fall over. "Bill's right!" Her voice was drowning out in the onslaught of curses and explosions. "Plus, you didn't take any of the Felix. We'll have a better chance of getting through this . . ."

"No way! Over my dead body are you fighting, Ginny! You're staying right here—" Ron covered both her and Neville just as a curse whizzed by Ron's left ear.

(_Shit a hippogriff . . . my unlucky arse is gonna get them killed . . ._)

(_If you join the battle, you might be able to draw some of the fire . . ._)

(_But I need to stay here and protect Ginny . . ._)

(_And what about Bill?_)

"Ginny's right!" Neville shouted over the din of exploding stone and yelling coming from down the corridor where the battle raged. "You'll only get maimed or killed . . ."

"Neville, I appreciate the concern, but it's _my brother in there_!" Ron felt the blood rushing to his head and he restrained himself from punching Neville for his complete lack of understanding.

"I know!" Neville shouted. "But they're trained for this, and you didn't have any of the Felix—"

"_NO_! _TONKS_!" Ron turned sharply at the sound of Bill's yell. An awesome, horrible roar rent the air, flanked by the sound of armor crashing and wall exploding.

"_BILL_! _IT'S GREYBACK . . . WATCH OUT! NOOO BILL—_"

A terrible sensation swept over Ron for two seconds as it registered in his brain that Tonks was screaming in terror for Bill . . . his brother, Bill.

With that, there was no stopping Ron, and he, Ginny, and Neville ran from the safety of their hiding spot, right into the fray.

Before them lay utter chaos. The Order was battling what looked like a small number of Death Eaters, fighting hard and to the bitter end . . . and the Order was outmatched. Not by a lot, but by enough to cause serious damage to the fighters. Ron pointed in one direction for Ginny to go, right in between McGonagall and Tonks, to seek shelter behind a fallen portion of a wall and fire spells from behind it. Neville was already charging toward the staircase that Ron recognized led up through to the Astronomy classroom. Neville was able to pull up a strong Shield Charm as Ron saw with a sickening feeling a Death Eater was shooting a Cutting Curse at him, meaning to make Neville bleed to death--

"_Crucio_!"

Ron leapt out of the way with barely enough time and rolled on the floor to look at his attacker. A tall, dark-haired, Death Eater laughed at him.

"_Gin-_ger," the man said with a leering sneer and twirling his wand. "Come out, come out, Ginger . . . Stand back up. I want to play with you some more. Red is my favorite color." Ron could _hear_ the malice dripping from the man's lips.

"Oi, Ugly . . . is that a promise? Because I do love playing with the big boys." Ron had managed to roll behind a large chunk of stone in front of a suit of armor. He could see in the metallic reflection that the Death Eater seemed surprised at his retort.

Which provided him a split-second opportunity.

"_Stupefy_!" Ron shouted and aimed right at the Death Eater's chest. The man promptly fell over, stunned. Ron let out a quick whoop . . . that died on his lips as he saw his brother entangled with Fenrir Greyback.

Ron saw a lot of red.

Red that wasn't Bill's hair.

With a great shout, Ron ran toward his brother.

"_Bill_!"

That only succeeded in Greyback dropping Bill's bloodied body to the ground in a sickening thud and turning his attention to the unlucky Gryffindor, who was now cursing the small amount of Felix Felicis that Harry had been given by Slughorn and wishing that the bottle of potion had been just a _wee_ bit bigger . . .

(_Odd those thoughts are right as you're about to be—_)

Without fanfare or warning, Greyback slammed into Ron, forcing the redhead against the wall.

"I see I get to taste the pair of ya!" Greyback sneered in a guttural, animalistic voice as he clutched Ron's throat, pushing him hard — and harder still — into the wall until Ron thought his spine would snap. Greyback sniffed around him, and Ron saw with disgust Greyback's yellowing fangs and the drool mingling with blood on his jaw. The beast licked his face and hummed in sinister satisfaction, "Reds . . . s-_sssoo_ good . . . boys are tasty, but _red_ girls . . . those are _sweeter_." And Greyback turned around to look at Ginny as she shot and fired spells from the concrete barrier.

"_NOOO_!" Ron's strangled cry of defiance. Greyback sneered at Ron — and Ron fell to the ground as some unknown force slammed right into Greyback knocking him off of his feet.

"_Bill_!" Ron yelled, as he watched his bloodied and bruised brother attacking Greyback. Ron scrambled to his feet, dove for his wand, which had fallen from his hands the moment Greyback attacked him. Scurrying over toward Bill, Ron barely registered a voice calling for the Death Eaters to get up to the top of the Astronomy Tower. Ron could just make out someone shouting, "He's there, He's up there!" Greyback and a number of Death Eaters complied with the command.

"_Ron_! _Bill_!" Ginny cried out. A curse barely missed Ginny. Without thinking, Ron started toward his younger sister—"

"_CRUCIO!_" The red light of the spell buzzed past Ron's ear from behind him. Ron turned around to face the Death Eater he had previously Stunned.

"_Protego_!" Ron shouted instinctively.

"_Diffindo_!" came the reply. The Death Eater aimed a spell directly for Ron's chest. Ron rolled and ducked. He shot a Stunner from under his arm.

"_Stupefy_!"

"_Confundo_!" . . . "_Crucio_!" . . . "_Avada_ _Kedavra_!"

Ron and the Death Eater shouted and threw spell after spell at each other, and Ron managed to duck from the Unforgivables that the Death Eater kept casting. The Death Eater let loose an evil sneer, mocking Ron cruelly. "Little boy doesn't throw spells to hurt, does he? Little boy can't use an Unforgivable, or little boy'll go running to his mummy . . ."

"_Silencio_!" Ron shouted, the Silencing Charm barely missing the Death Eater. Ron's opponent laughed mirthlessly. It was a cold, chilling sound.

Ron wished he'd never have to hear a sound like that again.

"_IT'S OVER_!" Ron heard a shout to his left. His Death Eater opponent turned toward the shout. Looking back at Ron, he sneered and winked and took off after the voice. Ron continued to fire Stunners, Disarming Charms, and Total Body-Binds at the retreating form.

The rest of the Order continued to engage the remaining Death Eaters in battle. Ron ran to help Ginny out with a lumpy Death Eater who was wheezing laughter at her while yelling "_Crucio_" at his little sister.

"_Ginny_!" Ron yelled. However, he only managed to close the gap just to her left before—

"Lookit _Red_, over here!" another of the blasted Death Eaters started firing curse after curse to Ron, and he was stuck between this idiot an the lumpy bastard trying to kill his sister . . .

"_Impedimenta_!" And the lumpy Death Eater fell.

Vaguely, in the midst of battle, Ron heard his sister cry out, "_Harry_," but whatever else she said was drowned out in Ron's own concentration on the Death Eater continuing to battle him. He fired one last Stunner and it struck, sending the prick to the floor in a heap. Ron ran to Ginny, both Weasleys utterly spent and panting from exertion.

"Gin! Did you see Harry?"

"Ron, he went that way," Ginny was out of breath, ". . . followed Snape . . . someone else . . . Bill . . . ?"

"Godric fucking _shit_!" Ron spun around and saw Bill. His stomach gave a lurch and he saw Bill, lying where he had tackled Greyback. Ron had forgotten all about the condition of his brother during the mad dash to see Ginny and the ensuing duels—

"Bill . . . wake up you git! Merlin, Bill . . . I'm sorry . . . I'm so bloody sorry . . ." Ron had managed to crawl and duck over to Bill's now unconscious, still-bleeding form. He tried shaking Bill back to the conscious world, but it was to no avail; Bill remained thoroughly knocked out, and his face, Ron thought, resembled a bleeding animal carcass. Ginny had a hold of Bill's head, and she cradled it gingerly. Ron could tell she was desperately trying not to lose it.

"_Help_!" Ron cried out desperately. "Bill's down! _Lupin_!"

To Ron's panting, exhausted relief, Lupin had finally managed to strike down a blocky-shaped, black-haired Death Eater with a nasty growth of facial hair.

"_No_! _Bill_ . . . Ron, what happened?"

"Greyback. It was Greyback, L-Lupin."

Paling, Lupin nodded. "We'll have to Levitate him to the Hospital Wing." Dodging a stray curse as McGonagall and Tonks ran after the last of the Death Eaters that were now following after their retreating comrades, Lupin moved around to where Ginny was kneeling on the stone, Bill's head still in her hands. "Ginny, Ron . . . I'll need one of you at his head and the other at his feet. Ron," Lupin addressed him, "you remember '_Mobilicorpus'_? Snape? The Shrieking Shack?"

Ron gave a firm nod.

"On three. One . . . Two . . . _Three_!"

"_Mobilicorpus_!" They Levitated Bill into the air; with a gentle flick of his wand, Lupin was able to float Bill to a vertical position. "Make sure his head stays even with the rest of his body. We don't want him to lose any more blood. Neville's unconscious . . . I think he tried to break through a magical barrier on the staircase. I'll have to Levitate him as well—"

Ron felt himself blanching, but managed to show Lupin he understood. They only had to wait a few minutes for Lupin to float Neville's unconscious form over to where they stood. Together, the three of them managed to float both Bill and Neville toward the Hospital Wing on the third floor.


	30. Chapter 29: The Death of the Phoenix

**A/N:** I own nothing. Rated T for voluminous swearing. Outpouring of grief, blame and emotion and all that. Oh, and thanks so much to stella8h8chang for her betawork.

Also, I'm now working on two one-shots that my profile page poll has helped me focus on! If you haven't yet voted for my next one-shot, please feel free to check it out. The poll closes on April 20th. Penultimate chapter, folks. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 29: The Death of the Phoenix**

"Firewhiskey?" Daphne snorted and shook her head as Blaise Zabini slammed full force into the couch in the Slytherin common room. "So my _victim_ becomes my bartender, eh?"

The two Slytherins were milling about in the very late hours of the previous day . . . or maybe by now, it was the wee hours of the next morning. A number of older Slytherins were up, playing a variety of wizard games. Some of the younger students were also hanging around, unwilling to let go of socializing during these last, lazy days of the term. As Blaise was making himself comfortable on the couch, Daphne quickly glanced over at a corner of the common room where Ivy Wellington and her friends had taken up space to talk and gossip; every once in a while, the two girls would smile at each other, and Daphne reckoned Ivy would ever-so-subtly nod and wink in her general direction.

They were tuned into the WWN, although, since it was after hours, the volume was down considerably lower than usual. Daphne realized that the band that was currently playing, the Merman Five, was the same band that Michael had been going on and on about earlier that day.

Of course, Daphne had joked that they were . . . "Nothing but a cheap Bowie ripoff!"

And Michael had chased her around the Entrance Hall courtyard, laughing and giggling and panting. Daphne had been having far too much fun with Michael, simply talking about anything and everything. Nothing more than a couple of elbow jabs and playful hugging and tickling occurred between them; they were, after all, seeking to reconnect first as friends. But it had been a pleasant day with Michael. The day had finished in the common room, where Daphne had even managed to catch up with some of the younger Slytherins that she had gotten to know throughout the year, such as Miss Wellington.

Pleasant, simple conversation all around . . . ending a rather _pleasant_ and _simple _year. Daphne couldn't help but chortle at her own sarcastic thought. She brought her attention back to her current (_drunk as a skunk!_) couch companion . . .

"No' any old firewhiskey. MacGillicuddy's Special Reserve, Black Label, aged fifty years. My mother's sixth . . . er, maybe it was seventh husband, had damn fine tastes. As well as a mighty fine arse." Blaise brought his fingertips up to his mouth, stifling a hiccup. "Anyways Greengrass, we are _cellll_-er-burr-ating the end o' term." Blaise slurred.

" '_Celll_-er-burra-ting?'" she said, smirking, "You've already started the festivities, then?"

Blaise hiccupped and grinned.

(_How . . . _appropriate_._)

Blaise raised his already filled goblet and handed Daphne one filled nearly to the brim.

"T'you, Daphne Greengrass. May you never stop . . . er, talking." Blaise raised his goblet to her. "You are _sh_-o very bloody good at it!"

Daphne rolled her eyes, but smiled big and wide at Blaise. She raised her drink and took a big gulp — inadvertently swallowing a third of the goblet. "Merlin . . . _shit_ . . . !" Daphne coughed and choked and spluttered. "Stuff burns . . . "

"It's older than we are, Daphne. It ain't going down like pumpkin juice." Blaise smirked into the rim of his cup. "Or . . . like me . . . smooth _and _sweet—"

Daphne groaned. "Oh, _EURGH_, Blaise! I'm cutting you off." Inwardly, however, Daphne was more than a little amused at this fairly-inebriated Blaise Zabini. He was . . . friendly and open.

Almost giddy in fact.

Blaise Zabini never got giddy. That sarcastic façade never really allowed "giddy" to come out. Daphne thought he was rather adorable like this.

"You're so cute when you're slightly intoxicated and talking about your sex life, Zabini."

Blaise muffled a hiccup and a grin and looked down at the parchment in Daphne's lap. "Wha's this, D'?"

(_Really? He's gonna go _there _with that "D" crap?!_)

"You sound like Harry and Ron, y'know that?"

To Daphne's shock, Blaise only smiled and nodded. "Still didn't _annn_-sewer my question."

"Well, um, Michael and I were talking . . ."

"_OOOH_!" Blaise got inordinately excited and grabbed at the parchment. "You're talking to him through _this?_"

Daphne chuckled. "Yep. Wanna see?"

Blaise nodded enthusiastically . . . .and hiccupped once again.

With her wand, Daphne cast the Dual Dialogue Charm, with a movement that looked like a treble clef representing Michael Corner. The dialogue she'd been writing to Michael suddenly appeared on the sheet. Daphne watched as Blaise' eyes widened in wonderment.

"Tha's comple'ly _wicked_!" Daphne couldn't help but giggle at Blaise. "Here, allow me," Blaise said, unceremoniously snatching the parchment and quill from Daphne.

"Hey!" Daphne exclaimed. Blaise only shook his head and continued to throatily laugh. Even as Daphne tried to wrestle the parchment out of Blaise's hands, her eyes shifted somewhere to just left of Blaise' head, toward their common room door. Daphne saw a very nervous-looking Pansy Parkinson, sitting on a chair as far away as she could from the couches her and Blaise were currently occupying. She looked rather frail and white; Daphne could see that she had chewed her nails down to the quick and the bags under her eyes were even more pronounced than ever.

(_Must be anxious about dear Draco. Where is that little rat, anyways?_)

Suddenly, a sound . . .

_No_, it was a sound but . . . it was more than that.

A song-like cry entered the common room. Daphne paused, listening to it . . . it compelled everyone's attention . . . the song penetrated the room, filled everyone that was still awake with waves and waves of emotion.

Daphne had to take a breath; she felt herself suddenly and inexplicably on the verge of tears. However, after a few moments, the feeling passed. Blaise looked up into the air, trying to figure out source for such a lovely, yet mysterious sound, and Daphne could see that even his own eyes were wet. The notes floating through the air were so beautiful, so delicate, but each tone shook everyone, _everything_ to its very foundation.

Blaise and Daphne allowed themselves a few more moments to let the notes seep into them, to wash over them as if being cleansed of all their old wounds.

"What was that?" Blaise asked softly. Daphne could only shrug . . . and almost instantly, she felt herself coming back to reality.

Daphne snapped out of whatever trance the music seemed to put her in and realized that Blaise, firewhiskey, and a parchment that allowed Blaise to talk to Michael freely did _not _sound like a good idea.

"_Zabini_!" Daphne tried to grab to the parchment and quill, but Blaise, even in his condition, was still quick on the uptake.

Daphne made do with reading over his shoulder . . . and gaped in astonishment. "Dammit Blaise! I _do not_ lie in bed at night, wishing he'd play 'hide the wand in the niffler' with me. Give – me – that – _now_!" Daphne reached around Blaise who was holding the parchment as far away from her as his arms would allow. She strained and wrestled with him for a few moments. "Michael and I are starting really slowly as friends again, and I don't want him getting the wrong ideas. . . ." Daphne and Blaise continued to struggle for dominance over the parchment of communication.

"Blaise, at least say that's from you, please? I don't want him thinking that I said that," she said, hoping her tone would make him realize she was being serious. Blaise stopped and smiled at Daphne.

"My, my, my . . . _Daphne_ _Greengrass_, the 'Little Snake That Could' . . . is _in love_!"

Daphne tried her best to look indignant, at the same time her heart pounded away in her chest at Blaise's words.

(_In love_?)

(_What does that even mean? What did Blaise mean by that? What're you doing, Greengrass, listening to him? He's being a drunken idiot._)

Daphne barely had a chance to come out of her reverie, when she looked down at the parchment and saw Blaise writing out to a very entertained Michael Corner (who had responded to Blaise's earlier comment: "_**Really? So that's what all the kids are calling that these days?**_") that it was _him_, not Daphne, that had made that rather lewd remark.

"Thank you, you prat. I apprec—"

Daphne's last words were cut off by the sound of the Slytherin common room door opening. Stumbling through it were an ashen-faced Eddie Carmichael, and Professor Slughorn, looking like someone close to him had just died.

Blaise put down his empty goblet, quickly resealed the bottle, and got up, faltering slightly as he made his way over to Eddie. The two looked at each other, Blaise's smile falling when he started to realize that something was very wrong.

_Very_ wrong indeed.

Daphne could feel it. Both Slughorn and Eddie had the distinct air of bearers of bad news that they could hardly believe themselves. She watched as a number of Slytherins that were still up at this ungodly late hour started making their way toward the two unusual guests.

"Eddie?" Daphne realized that Blaise, in his tipsy state, had little to no reservations about physical displays toward the bloke he was currently seeing on the sly. Blaise reached out for Eddie . . . in front of a small number of Slytherins, Pansy Parkinson, _and_ their Potions Master.

"Eddie Carmichael." Daphne stood up, interrupting Blaise's gesture. "What's going on?"

Eddie came back to reality, for he shook his head quickly, looked at Daphne, and met Slughorn's eyes . . .

His eyes, which Daphne noticed, were brimming with tears.

(_Oh Salazar . . . did somebody _really _die?_)

"Everybody, please," Slughorn came to himself and addressed the common room in a voice without the joviality he normally had. Daphne could hear the slight tremor creeping into Slughorn's words; she had never heard such a solemn tone coming from the Potions instructor. "Miss, er, Greengrass and Mr. Zabini. Would you please fetch the rest of your house-mates. The Head of Slytherin House requests a meeting with all the students."

* * *

(_No . . . _)

(_Not right . . . im-impossible . . ._)

(_Dumbledore couldn't have died . . . Dumbledore _can't _die . . ._)

"I want to stress that we _do_ _not_ know the details of what happened tonight." Daphne couldn't remember when she had ever heard Slughorn sounding so . . . professional, so straightforward. "We do not know the details of the Headmaster's death, whether he was involved in what looks like a skirmish in the Astronomy Tower. We do know that Professor Snape was somehow involved, and we have no further information about his or Mr. Malfoy's current whereabouts."

"Please, Professor," a boy spoke up in the back.

"Er, yes. Your name?

"William McNaughton. Third year. Will our parents be notified if they want to take us out of Hogwarts before the term is officially over?"

"That will be up to them, Mr. McNaugton." Slughorn replied mildly. "Acting Headmistress McGonagall—" there were several audible groans as Slughorn mentioned her name, "will be making the announcement tomorrow regarding whether Hogwarts is to remain open until the official end of term." A flood of murmurs and whisperings took over the crowd. A few more hands shot up, wanting to ask more questions.

"I will take inquiries on the procedure from here until the end of term, but if your questions are in regard to the events of tonight, or Professor Snape or Mr. Malfoy's whereabouts, I have given all the information that I can on those matters." Daphne glanced over at two boys in the back who rolled their eyes and brought their hands down. "Now, Headmistress McGonagall shall be in this position until at least the beginning of next year—"

"—If there is one . . ." Daphne heard a couple of fourth year boys giggling and high-fiving each other in the corner of the room, out of Slughorn's earshot, as he continued talking.

"—So I expect you all to give her the utmost respect." There were grumbles of complaints and a rather noncommittal attitude overall.

Daphne's head felt like it was spinning, spinning out of control like a top on an oily-slick surface. She needed her wand, and realized, with a start that it wasn't on her person. Standing up, she looked at the faces around the Slytherin common room. Many of the older Slytherins had blank expressions. Blaise was merely looking at Daphne as she shot up straight in the air. The younger Slytherins, particularly Willa Huxley and her friend, Marian, and Ivy Wellington, who was comforting two other girls, seemed to have been truly affected by the news; some shed genuine tears and others had solemn faces. However, a stark majority of the Slytherins were looking at Slughorn with expressions of annoyance that their sleep was interruputed, mild shock, and utter indifference.

Daphne sought out Pansy Parkinson, to see if there was any hint, any indication that she knew--

(_Malfoy did this . . . she had to have known!_)

But when she found the girl, all Daphne saw was Pansy Parkinson, sitting hunched over, rocking back and forth slightly. Pansy's knuckles were rubbing against her mouth, and no color was left in her face. That image seemed to diffuse any anger that had been building up in Daphne toward Pansy.

(_She might be suffering . . . but she _knows_ Malfoy's involved . . ._)

But she didn't want to start anything with Pansy right now. She had to get her wand. Daphne bolted up the stairs to the Slytherin girls' dormitory, deaf to Slughorn's cries of "Miss Greengrass, we're still not finished—"

She didn't _care_ if they weren't finished . . . She didn't care . . .

She needed answers . . .

She needed to know what happened . . .

She needed to know if Dumbledore really—

Daphne sucked in a sob, and burst into her empty dormitory. Running over to her desk, she looked in her drawer everywhere for her wand. It wasn't there.

"No . . . no . . . dammit. _FUCK THIS!_" She smashed her fist into her desktop.

And then she saw it.

In the bottom corner of her drawer, she ran her finger over the Galleon Hermione Granger had given to the DA last year. Picking it up, she looked at it, flipping it in her fingers . . . and then she noticed the writing had changed to today's (_yesterday, by now, Greengrass!_) date in June and the writing merely said "Room of Requirement". Daphne felt her breath speeding up and looked back down into the wooden desk drawer where she picked up her Galleon, and saw scorch marks singed into the wood.

The same words telling members of the DA where the battle tonight would take place had burned permanently into the wooden drawer.

Daphne couldn't tell anyone what happened after that. The last thing she knew she was throwing herself down the stairs, desperate to get to her things in the common room. If she had to, she'd steal someone's wand . . . it simply didn't feel right going out into the castle right now without some protection.

She vaguely remembered Blaise Zabini holding up her wand to her in a shaky hand, and trying to ask her what was going on. She barely heard Slughorn practically demanding her to sit down so he could give announcements to the entire house. Daphne could barely make out running . . . running . . . running throughout the dungeons, to make it to the Entrance Hall . . . to get to the Grand Staircase . . . to get to the corridor of the third floor to the Hospital Wing. Daphne couldn't say how she had to stop and control her stomach and how she had to hit herself many, many times in her head to prevent her from crying, to stop the tears from falling. She couldn't cry . . . not now.

Not when she needed to find out what happened.

Right . . .

(_" . . . all of you will find that friendship, in the most unlikeliest of places, can change the world . . ."_)

Left . . .

(" . . . _for all of this, you have shown yourself as Riddle's better. You are a good person, Daphne . . ._")

Right . . .

(" . . . _You must hear it again . . . Daphne, you are a good person . . ._")

Daphne couldn't even see by the time she made it to the third floor and to the doors of the Hospital Wing. She could see that the room was occupied by a number of people, standing clustered near a couple of beds, talking.

She opened the door.

"I'm sorry, dear the Hospital Wing is—"

Daphne met Ron's eyes. They were hard and cold. It was only after a few heartbeats that she realized he was covered in what looked like dust, practically saturating his hair and clothes, and he had more gashes and bruises all over his face. There was a nasty rip in his shirt, through which blood was oozing.

"You're late to the party, Greengrass," Ron said, mechanically.

Daphne shook her head, more out of shock than denial. "I-I didn't kn—"

Her head turned to the bed that most of the people were surrounding. She saw a tall figure lying on it, and long red hair streaming down the length of the man's back. A dragon-tooth earring in his ear—

"Bill?" Daphne whispered. That's when she noticed Fleur Delacour dabbing some medicine all over Bill's face.

Bill's face which was nearly torn apart.

Daphne's stomach gave a lurch.

"Where were you?" Daphne turned to hear Ron's voice. It wasn't suspicious, nor was it angry. If anything, there was an almost pleading quality to it. Daphne looked at him, knowing her chin was trembling before she opened her mouth.

"In m-my common room, Ron. I-I . . . didn't know, Ron. I didn't have the Galleon on me. I had put it away . . . " she turned away from the Gryffindor; she couldn't look at him. Daphne then felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Daphne?" The Slytherin turned and met Harry Potter's dark green eyes; they nearly knocked her over with the mix of emotions, ranging from anger to sadness, as he looked at her.

"Sl-slughorn t-told us . . . it's not true, is it Harry? Dumbled-. . . he's not . . ."

And Daphne watched as Harry slowly nodded.

"_No,_" she breathed. "No . . . he's not supposed to," she trailed off.

And that barrier, the wall she put up on her way from the dungeons to the Hospital Wing collapsed.

"N-no . . . no, no, n-n-no . . ." Daphne sobbed. She lifted her head up and looked at Harry. "H-how? What h-hap-pened?"

She watched Harry swallow. He took his glasses off and cleaned them on his shirt while she continued to cry, hiccupping for air every once in a while. Putting them back on his face, Harry started to talk. "I was there, under my dad's Cloak. I watched Malfoy come up to the tower, Daphne. He had his wand drawn on Dumbledore. Told him he let Death Eaters into the castle. Malfoy used a pair of Vanishing Cabinets . . . the one that _Montague _got stuck in last year. There was another pair in Borgin and Burkes. They used the path that the pairs created between Knockturn Alley and Hogwarts—"

"Oh, _Godric_ . . . _no_!" Daphne's voice cracked, as it strained upwards, her crying and sobbing increasing.

(_You're an idiot, Greengrass! Montague . . .'M'nt'gue . . . you should have know . . .you should have known . . ._)

"I was so stupid, Harry . . . so _stupid_ . . ."

"Daphne, it was all of us, okay? We all missed things, we didn't know what to look for—"

"_But he was in my House!_" Daphne shouted desperately, pointing at her self, stabbing her chest with her fingers. "He was in my house, Harry! Montague . . . Malfoy — _Dammit! _" She dissolved again into sobs.

"It wasn't Malfoy who killed him, though. He couldn't go through with it."

"Wha'? B-but you just said—" Daphne watched as Harry took a breath, closed his eyes and ran his tongue over his top lip and teeth.

"It was Snape."

Daphne heard a choking sound come from her. She couldn't talk, she couldn't speak. She could only shake her head, desperate to deny this latest bit of information.

Harry could only nod with a frantic speed. "You should know this, okay? You _deserve_ to know this. I'm sorry, but I saw him. I saw Snape use Avada—"

"_No!_" Daphne bellowed. She didn't give a shit who was in the room with her. If she said it loud enough, it wouldn't be true. She'd yell it from the mountaintops if it would change the fact that Harry was looking at her with such earnestness . . . with such sincerity . . .

(_Harry Potter wouldn't lie about this, Greengrass._)

"Daphne, he used the Killing Curse on Dumbledore. Dumbledore fell off the Astronomy Tower and Snape took off with Malfoy and the rest of the Death Eaters. They Apparated just past the Hogwarts gates."

It was with a slight jolt that Daphne realized she had stopped crying once it had sunk in that it wasn't Malfoy who had killed Dumbledore.

(_Snape?_)

(" . . . _you can be quite charming in a similar way to Professor Snape, from time to time . . . _")

Dumbledore's voice echoed in Daphne's mind and she had to take a moment as she felt her knees buckle as she moved closer to a hospital bed. Their conversation from the summer seemed as though it was only a few days old.

(" . . . _as with Professor Snape . . . I sense another side to you that belies your external charms . . ._")

Dumbledore, who seemed so all-knowing, completely omniscient, died at the hands of a man he trusted beyond all reason.

A man Dumbledore had compared to Daphne numerous times.

(_Like Snape — murderer._)

(_Like Voldemort — inhuman._)

Daphne's chest constricted. Her teacher and her guide. One was a killer now . . . and the other was his victim. Both were now gone. Snape because he was running away for committing the _foulest_ of crimes, and Dumbledore because he—

Daphne gasped.

And what the hell was she? She was Daphne Greengrass. An orphan who came from nothing. A foster child at one. A runaway at seven. A witch at eleven. A slag at fourteen. And now . . .

"Daphne?" Hermione spoke quietly. "Daphne, are you still with us?"

Daphne slowly lifted her head to look at Hermione Granger. Her face was puffy and red, like she had been crying for herself, crying for Dumbledore, crying for their failures, crying because Bill . . .

"Wait," Daphne said breathlessly, "how's Bill?" She heard how quiet she was.

"Madam Pomfrey and Lupin are looking into it. Greyback—"

"The werewolf Greyback?" Daphne asked in a whisper. Hermione nodded. She listened, barely, as Hermione said something about Bill turning or not turning, scars, and whatnot. Daphne got up and walked toward Mrs. Weasley and Fleur Delacour. Both women stopped, Fleur froze as she held a rag soaked with ointment that she was dabbing on Bill's wounds.

"I'm . . . s-so sorry, Mrs. Weasley," Daphne whispered. "Fleur," she said, turning to the girl, "I c-can't even tell you . . . I'm . . . it's," Daphne's voice caught in her throat. "It's _my_ fault!" she blurted. "I could've done more. I could've followed him! I could've stopped Malfoy from . . . fr-from," she gestured to Bill. "Could've stopped Snape from doing . . . what . . ." Daphne stopped suddenly as everything fell behind a veil of tears and she brought her hands up to her eyes. Mrs. Weasley turned fully around to face the girl, and grabbed her by her shoulders.

"Do _not_ blame yourself, Daphne. What happened tonight was _no one's_ fault, not yours, not _anyone's_," Mrs. Weasley said, carefully emphasizing the words and speaking very slowly. Daphne felt a hand on her back.

"Daphne, 'e weel be fine," said Fleur, with a muffled, yet soothing voice, "Beel did 'is job. 'E did what Dumbledore asked 'im to do . . . and we are steel getting married." She gave Daphne a small smile.

(_You're just sucking their time and energy away from Bill_)

"I'll . . . I'll l-let you get ba-back to him," Daphne stuttered and said in a muffled voice.

"Daphne—"

"_Non_ . . . you should be 'ere, Daphne. You should be 'ere with us. _S'il te plaît_?"

Daphne mutely shook her head and backed away.

(_Bill who needs them far more than you do . . ._)

(_Bill who was hurt because Malfoy let Death Eaters into the castle . . ._)

_(Death Eaters that got in because you didn't figure out what 'M'nt'gue was . . ._)

Daphne suddenly felt if she stayed in the Hospital Wing, her heart would explode. Without a word, she pivoted and walked quickly out of the Hospital Wing, even though she could hear people calling after her. Through the cacophony, she barely made out a male voice saying he'd check up on her. She heard the doors open behind her and a quick succession of footsteps catching up . . .

"Ron, don't."

The Gryffindor fell into step beside her. "It was getting crowded in there."

Daphne didn't say anything.

"You shouldn't be alone right now."

"You're an expert in what I need, then, are you?" she snapped, far more harshly than she had intended.

Ron strode forward to block her momentum.

"All right. Fine. You should have been there. _Fine_." Ron's voice was level but even-ness of his tone was low and tremulous, betraying the need for an emotional release. "_You_ could have done more? Whatever. You asked Hermione and me and Harry all the time about whether you should do this, whether you should spy on Malfoy, whether you should do something else. _We're _the ones that told you to watch it, not to do anything that might cause someone to attack you." Ron's voice was now increasing sharply in volume. "To only come to us if you were able to find something without getting yourself hurt. We're _all_ bloody hurting here, Daphne. _You're_ not the only one. So stop _fucking – acting – like -_ _it_!" Ron spat out the last few words.

"What – the – _hell_, Ron?" Daphne could hear her voice rise. "Why the hell, in the name of Salazar Slytherin are you railing on _me_? You're _that_ pissed off I didn't join in the fight? I'd give anything, _anything at all_ to stop this, to stop their hurting!" She pointed toward the Hospital Wing. "_I_ should have fucking figured out about 'M'nt'gue! If I had, _none_ of this shit," she pointed to the Hospital Wing, "none of it would've happened. And I know it's too late to do anything about it, but I want to know why the hell Malfoy and Snape would possibly do something this awful!" Daphne was panting. This release, this outpouring of emotion in the form of angry yelling felt _damn _good, and she wanted to keep going.

"I'll tell you why Malfoy did it . . . _he's_ following Daddy's Death Eater footsteps! That's why he did this _thing_!" Ron yelled back. "He's rotten to the bloody core, and there's no need for you to understand anything else beyond that. _End – of –_ _story_!"

"I _need _it, Ron! Dumbledore, in his _infinite_ wisdom, said I was like Snape. _I'M LIKE SNAPE!_" Daphne yelled, louder than herself, louder than Ron. "I'm like him! What does that even mean? I'm as bloody evil, as vile, as awful as Snape is? That I'm a killer? I'm a traitor? I _AM_ A FUCKING TRAITOR, RON! I'm a traitor in Slytherin, and I might as well have turned you all in for all the good me being in Slytherin did us! I'm like Voldemort, too, right? I shouldn't be around you . . . NONE OF YOU! I don't deserve you. I don't deserve your family! I don't deserve – _any_ – _of_ – _THIS_!"

"Well, let me enlighten you, Daphne, just so you don't think you're in this pity party all by yourself . . . _I – FUCKED – UP! _I was the reason Bill got messed up by Greyback! I messed up in following Malfoy . . . I was too slow, too _late_ in hexing him. I let him get so far that he almost killed Dumbledore! I _let_ Bill fight off Greyback in front of me . . . Bill _saved _my life! And then I _BLOODY FORGOT _about him. I rushed off to help Ginny, but _I_ forgot about Bill. I let him get attacked. _I_ LET HIM _ALMOST_ _DIE_! So _do_ _not_ think, for one second you're gonna shoulder all this shit, all this blame! Stop your wallowing!"

Daphne and Ron were both panting at this point, yelling so much and so loudly that their voices were already starting to sound raw.

Daphne turned around, walking a few paces away from Ron, and stopped. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she squeezed her face tightly. "Ron, I'm sorry. Tonight seemed like it was just another night, like nothing bad was going to happen. And now, all of this . . . "

All was quiet for a moment. Daphne heard a sigh just behind her. Turning back around, she saw Ron shaking his head tiredly. "Well, I've gotta say, it felt good to get that out of me, y'know. Fred and George were right."

"Right about what?"

"That you can take it and you can dish it out too." Ron let his head fall into his hands, shaking it a couple of times. He looked back at her, pulling his hands away from his face. "Hey, I'll still walk you back."

"I can do it, Ron. You need to be here with your family." Ron shook his head.

"I need a walk, clear my head some. You and I, we don't have to talk or anything, right? Just walk."

Sighing, Daphne nodded and motioned with her head for Ron to come with her.

* * *

"How are you doing, Ron, with everything that's happened?'

Ron looked over at his Emotional Healer, Flora Auditor. "Well, fine, I s'pose," Ron said with a small shrug. They were sitting in Madam Pomfrey's office this time, and Ron let his eyes wander over the organized chaos of students' files, parchments of the latest Healing developments, and pictures of Healers, some of whom were sleeping and some of whom were listening in on them.

Flora followed Ron's eyes. "Oh, Ron, I'm sorry about this arrangement. I can assure you that the portraits have been charmed with a Confidentiality Spell. They are unable to speak or describe anything that is discussed during private Healer-patient meetings, or else . . ."

"Else what?"

"_Or_ else they start telling their _own_ deepest and darkest secrets. It's been quite the downfall of some of our top Healers." Flora said with a nod and a wink, her smile widening just a little bit more.

Such a small gesture seemed to pull Ron out of whatever shell he had retreated into and, for the first time since the battle, he felt a genuine smile growing on his face . . . a smile that actually reached his eyes.

"Feel free to talk, Ron, if you want to."

He let out a breath. "Well, what's there to talk about? You know all the big stuff, right? It was in the Daily Prophet . . ."

"Yes, it was. But I would like to hear what you have to say about it. What happened with you—"

"'S not important," Ron heard himself mumbling.

"It's important to me, Ron."

Ron looked at Flora, who had a most earnest expression on her face. Creasing his eyebrows, Ron looked directly in front of him, his shoulders and back hunched and propped up by his elbows on his knees.

"I . . . I just . . . I feel like a failure, Flora."

"Why?"

Ron looked back up at her. "I let Bill get hurt. I didn't listen to Harry's suspicions about Malfoy." Ron sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "There's . . . Flora, we missed so many signs, so many clues. And I feel like it's my fault."

"Explain it to me, Ron, how you think it's your fault."

"_Because_," Ron said in a sharp tone, "because I distracted Hermione all last year. Because I didn't listen to Harry when I should've. Because I didn't hex Malfoy as soon as I saw him the night that this all happened. Because I ran head-first into the battle and almost got my older brother killed and I forgot about him to try and help Ginny . . ." Ron's voice faded and he shook his head. "There's so many other things, Flora. I did wrong on so many things, I can't even count them all." Ron closed his hands together, covering his lower face with them.

"That sounds like quite a number of reasons for you to blame yourself, Ron. That's a lot of responsibility for a teenager to put on their shoulders."

Ron shrugged. "You asked," he mumbled.

Flora flashed a quick grin that favored the right side of her mouth. "It's a lot to put on your shoulders. And you're still a teenager. Do you realize that there are many teenagers that go out with their friends, not to fight in a war, but to just hang out and have fun? There are a lot of teenagers that go to parties, go to these things called movies—"

Ron snickerd a little. "Hermione told me about those. Big screens, moving pictures. She said I wouldn't like it because I'd want to make jokes and talk the whole time it was on and that would be rude."

Flora smiled and lifted her eyebrows quickly, as if to agree that movies probably weren't Ron's thing. "Ron, you have shouldered and endured so much for someone who is so young . . ."

"But it isn't fair!"

"You're absolutely right, Ron. It's not fair to you, at all—"

"No, no, no," Ron said, shaking his head vigorously. "It's not fair that I feel like this when Harry's the one everyone's resting their hopes on. Harry's had so much to work through his whole life! And here I am, wallowing in my own pity party . . . _AAARGH_!" Ron kicked at Pomfrey's desk leg and fell forward, his head drooping into his hands.

"I suck so much," Ron said, his voice muffled. "And I can't stop thinking about Bill and what happened to him being my fault. I can't stop thinking if I hadn't been so wrapped up in Hermione's and my relationship, none of this would ever have happened." Ron's hands fell from his face, and he looked at Flora despondently.

(_I'm the world's biggest fuck-up!_)

"Ron, I think you need to hear something. And it is vital that you think this is okay, _okay_?"

Ron looked at her, unmoving. He didn't nod, nor did he give any indication for her to continue other than staring directly at her.

"There is nothing, absolutely _nothing_ wrong with feeling concerned about your friends, your family. But you should never feel responsible for things that were not in your control to begin with."

"But that's what I'm trying to say! They _were_!" Ron said desperately. "If I — if _we_'d just looked a little bit closer, we could've stopped this."

"_Could_, Ron, the word there is _could_. It is absolutely important that you understand that all the 'could'ves' in our world, all the 'could'ves' in our lifetimes doesn't mean we _have _to. Ron, it is so easy to look back on what was and see what could have been done in a situation that we didn't do, and see what could have possibly changed if we'd done something differently. However, there is that greater possibility that anything you _could_ _have_ done differently wouldn't have changed a thing."

Ron sat for a few moments, trying to let Flora's words sink in. "But what about Bill," he said a desperate quality creeping into his voice. "Bill rescued me from Greyback and nearly got killed." Ron was growing more and more agitated. "I forgot him during the fight. He nearly died, Flora!" Ron's voice had been inching up in volume levels; by the end of his rant, he threw his head back over the top of his chair, and let loose a small string of expletives.

"S-sorry," Ron muttered sheepishly.

"You'd probably be surprised to know I've heard worse," Flora said. "Didn't you say a few moments ago that you were in a fight with your brother _and_ your youngest sister?"

Ron brought his head back up and looked at Flora, nodding.

"The way it seems to me, Ron, is that you were looking out, you were protecting Ginny from harm. You acted as a true older brother would . . . just like Bill did for you. You admire Bill, don't you?"

He nodded soundlessly.

"Has Bill always looked out for you? For his younger siblings?"

Ron thought through this before answering. Bill had been his idol growing up. The big brother Ron had wanted to be like. Smart, popular at school, prefect, Head Boy . . . Bill had shouldered so many expectations, not only at Hogwarts, but afterward, when he'd started getting noticed as one of the top curse-breakers at Gringotts.

At the Burrow, all throughout his childhood, Ron remembered the summers when Bill was back home, or visiting from Egypt. Bill had seemed to be there, ready and available, if the twins had kept pestering Percy, Ron or Ginny, or if any of his younger siblings had needed help.

One time, and it seemed like forever ago, Bill had chased Fred and George far into the woods, almost past the large pond on the outskirts of the Burrow, for attempting to cast the Imperius Curse on Ron. Fred and George had claimed they knew it wouldn't work, but they were curious about it because their dad mentioned it one night.

"We were j-jus' tryin' to see if we could get Ron to t-tap-dance on some spiders out in Dad's shed," Fred had claimed at the time.

"Yeah," George had piped in too. "Get over his fear, an' all that." Both twins had cowered in front of their taller and tough older brother.

"Right, and tell me again how Ron got so scared about spiders in the first place?" Bill had demanded, his fists clenched.

Ron reckoned he'd never seen Fred or George utterly and completely silenced and submissive . . .

"Bill always had a way with us," Ron said. "I mean, he's no Dad or anything, but Bill's _Bill_. He never really lost his temper or anything. I mean, he and Charlie would fight with each other, but more in fun than anything else. But when he was at home, Bill looked out for all of us."

"Bill was a true big brother, then? He still is, isn't he?"

Ron nodded. "Yeah, he's 'Big Brother' Bill, and he always will be."

"And you're 'Big Brother' Ron, looking out for Ginny. You've learned so much from Bill, Ron, and I think that he _is _very proud of how you handled yourself during the fight." Flora gave him a smile.

Ron responded in kind . . . just never saying out loud that he didn't believe it.


	31. Chapter 30: Things Fall Apart

**(Rather long) A/N**: Here is the final chapter _of **Daphne Greengrass and the 6**__**th**__** Year From Hell**_. Thanks so much for following along with Daphne as she stumbles through life, trying to finding herself and a place where she belongs. Thank you to everyone who has left reviews and who have put me and my story on their alerts and favorites. I appreciate your support, and I hope I was able to respond to all of your reviews. Thanks so much to Tincat and to stella8h8chang for being such indispensable help with this story.

The sequel, _**Daphne Greengrass and the 7**__**th**__** Year From Hell**_**,** will be told from the POVs of Ginny Weasley and Daphne; it will focus on the Weasley family and what happens at Hogwarts during the trio's Horcrux hunt. I expect to have the prologue up next week. Please put me on your Author Alerts if you want to be notified as soon as the sequel is _hot_-_off_-_the_-_press_! And for everyone who has followed this story, please leave a review and let me know what you think about the story as a whole, as well as this final chapter, as it's one of my favorites :0)

Additionally, I just put up my Luna Lovegood one-shot . . . but now I'm contemplating doing one in her voice in a way similar to _**Ten Birthdays**_. The piece is quite fluffy, and I'd like to try to capture another side of Luna as well . . . I just need to put pen to paper :-)

I own nothing. JKR owns it all, except for the lyrics to Oasis' "Wonderwall", from _(What's the Story) Morning Glory?. _The song was written by Noel Gallagher and was released in 1995. I can vouch for the quality of all the bands mentioned in this story and in this chapter. The three mentioned in this chapter alone are among my favorites!

Rated T for strong language and (implied) mature themes. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 30: Things Fall Apart**

Daphne dragged her trunk down to the Slytherin common room. She didn't wake anyone up to tell them she was leaving, nor did she write out any good-bye notes to anyone she thought might care.

The last couple of days had been unbearable for her. She had told no one in Slytherin about Harry's account of what happened on top of the Astronomy Tower. Rumors had circulated that Harry had somehow been involved with whatever had occurred that evening. Certainly, the other Slytherins had asked Daphne about it. However, Daphne had remained tight-lipped and emotionless over the following couple of days.

Arrangements had already been made for Dumbledore's funeral, which was to be held on Hogwarts grounds . . . a funeral that would be lacking a few Slytherins in its attendance, including Daphne herself. A fair number of parents had stormed up to Professor Slughorn and demanded that be allowed to pull their children out of school. Headmistress McGonagall and Professor Slughorn could only comply somberly with those commands.

Although she had no family coming to pick her up, Daphne had already determined that she could get to Hogsmeade, Apparate to Diagon Alley, and from there, catch the Knight Bus or Floo to Miss Proctor's home. Even though the fireplace in her living room _was _tiny, and Daphne dreaded dragging herself and her trunk through it, she thought that magical transportation would simply be faster and more economical than Muggle transport, such as taxis or buses.

She stopped as she drew closer to the middle of the common room. Glancing over to the longest black leather couch near the Slytherin fireplace, Daphne saw a mound moving under a satiny, dark green quilt. Daphne dropped her trunk and the mound jumped a bit in surprise. Walking over to it, Daphne saw the lump was a human, rather small, pale, and—

"Pansy?" Daphne whispered.

Pansy turned two red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes toward Daphne, and gave a very half-hearted snort. "Bitch."

But there was no anger, no vitriol in her tone.

Daphne strode over and stood just in front of Pansy. Folding her arms, she focused solely on the girl sitting opposite to her.

"What?" Pansy sounded like her mouth was filled with cotton balls.

Daphne paused for a few moments. Closing her eyes, Daphne spoke. "Did you know?"

When she heard nothing in response, Daphne opened her eyes and looked — really _looked_ — at Pansy. Pansy was fiddling with the corners of her quilt, pointedly avoiding Daphne.

"Well?" Daphne spoke after a few beats.

Pansy shook her head. "He never told me," she mumbled. "It doesn't take that Mudblood Granger to figure out that _he_ told Draco to do . . . _that_." Pansy snorted.

"What, d'you mean, Pansy," Daphne drawled. "Do you mean that _Voldemort_ told Draco to _kill_ Dumbledore?" Daphne snorted as she watched Pansy cringe. "You can't even admit, can't even _say _Voldemort's name, can you? You can't admit that_ Draco Malfoy_ was ordered to _kill_ someone."

There was a malicious tone to Daphne's voice, and she wanted her words to strangle Pansy until she couldn't breathe. If Malfoy wasn't around to feel the blunt edge of her wrath, then, _dammit_ . . . his little girlfriend would hear—

Pansy let out a gasp, and her shaky hand came up to her mouth. Daphne saw her cheeks growing shiny and wet—

(_Oh, of course she'd be crying in front of me . . . _dammit!)

(_Notfeelingsorryforher. . . . Notfeelingsorryforher. . . . Notfeelingsorryforher. . . ._)

Shaking her head, Daphne told herself to just step away from Pansy, to not feel bad for her, because she had helped him . . . _she_ had been part of the deception . . .

Daphne rolled her eyes, flared her nostrils, and sat down on the couch, more in the middle than directly next to Pansy. She left a bit of space between them.

"Er, Pansy?"

Pansy sniffed and kept her eyes forward. "I d-didn't know what he was s-sup-posed to do. I knew Draco was told to do something, b-but I didn't . . ." Pansy lowered her head. "I didn't like that idiot Headmaster, but I didn't want him dead . . . not by Draco at least."

Taking another deep breath, Daphne closed her eyes, and stuck her tongue between her teeth and her lips. Would it do any harm to tell Pansy that Malfoy couldn't go through with the deed? Should she mention Snape's part as Dumbledore's—

Daphne swallowed. "Draco didn't, Pansy."

Pansy lifted her head and looked at Daphne, her brow lowered in confusion. "What d-do you mean?" She rubbed her nose with her tiny, pale fingers.

"Draco _didn't_ . . . he didn't kill Dumbledore."

Pansy shook her head in disbelief. "But, n-no. H-he had a task. If he d-didn't, h-he'd be . . . oh, _Circe_! " A small choking sound came from her throat, and Pansy once again pressed her fingers to her trembling chin and mouth.

"I don't know how or who, but Draco wasn't alone with Dumbledore," Daphne said, settling on an explanation that didn't give too much away.

Pansy, still tearing up, looked at Daphne. "H-how do you . . . ?" she trailed off.

Daphne held her hand up. "I won't tell you, all right. I just _know_, and so do you now." Daphne rested her hand on her fist and regarded Pansy with soft eyes. "Does that help?"

Pansy could only shrug in response.

Nodding once, Daphne braced herself on the couch and stood up. Just as she turned around to head toward her trunk, she heard the stampeding of feet coming down the boys' dormitory. Hand going to her wand, she watched as Blaise Zabini sped down the stairs.

"Daphne! What. . . ?" He saw her trunk. "The funeral's not—"

"For another two days. I'm not going," she said flatly.

Blaise cocked his eyebrow. "Apparently. You're going to hang out with the Weasels then, huh?"

"It's the _Weasleys_, and no, I'm not going to the Bur- . . . er, I'm just going to go to Miss Proctor's for, like, a few days. Clear my head. Stay out of the magical world for a bit." Daphne looked at Blaise from out of the corner of her eye. "Need a break."

Blaise nodded slowly, and suddenly, gave a small flinch.

"Wait a minute." Blaise fished around on his cloak and in the pockets of his trousers for something. "Do you have a parchment and quill?"

Giving him a puzzled look, Daphne opened up her trunk and pulled out the items Blaise had asked for and gave them to him.

Blaise wrote down what looked like a flat number and street address in Diagon Alley area of London. He thrust the parchment and quill back into Daphne's hands.

"This is Eddie's flat in Diagon Alley. His mum wasn't too terribly happy when he told her he'd been accepted into the Healing program at St. Mungo's, and said he'd have to be on his own during his training. He's moving into the place immediately after term's over — got a damn fine deal on it . . . er, anyways," Blaise said, drifing off awkwardly as Daphne looked back up at him.

"Blaise?"

The boy shook his head, and waved his hand in front of him. "Eddie won't have a problem with it, okay? Just, y'know . . . giving you the option. Nothing more, all right?"

Daphne continued looking at him. "Thanks." She put everything back into her trunk, turned sharply, and walked toward the common room door.

She paused, just before opening it. Daphne turned around and looked back at Blaise over her shoulder. Giving him a quick smile, she walked through the threshold, and started toward Hogsmeade.

* * *

Harry and Ginny trailed behind Ron and Hermione into the Great Hall. Both couples had been in somber moods since the fight and Dumbledore's death. Of course, it was perfectly understandable and completely expected. But Harry had used the time since Dumbledore's death and finding out the Slytherin locket was simply a fake left by some _R.A.B._ person, to think . . . and think . . . and _think_ about the one hard, but right, thing to do.

As much as it hurt him to do what he needed to do, as much as he was giving up the best thing he had had since Quidditch, since Ron and Hermione, since Hogwarts, since _ever_, he had to do it, for him. For her.

For the whole _bloody_ wizarding world.

He just had to _make _himself do it.

And he couldn't until the absolute last possible moment . . .

Harry heard a cough to his left. Apparently, so had Ron and Hermione and Ginny, because they stopped and turned to face—

"Blaise Zabini?"

"_Ye_-eah, Pot- . . .er, _Harry_," Blaise Zabini muttered. He scratched the back of his head. "Look, I'm really not comfortable coming over here to talk to you," Blaise' nostrils flared slightly, "Gryffindors—"

"Can say the feeling's mutual, Zabini," Harry deadpanned.

"—But I know you and _them_," Blaise gestured with his thumb over his shoulder, "are friends with Daphne, so I thought you'd want to know. She's left Hogwarts."

Harry stared at him. "No . . . when?" Ron and Hermione strode forward to stand next to Harry, keeping their hardened eyes trained on Blaise.

"She left this morning. She's going back to Miss Proctor's."

"Damn," Harry mumbled.

"Shit," Ron swore. "Was she all right?"

Blaise shrugged. "Well, I saw her downstairs with Pansy Parkinson—"

Harry stiffened upon hearing Malfoy's girlfriend's name.

"—And they didn't tear apart the common room. They actually looked like they'd been talking civilly for once." Blaise looked among the four of them. "I gave her a — well — she's got the address of my, er . . . my _summer _home." He crossed his arms and gave the Gryffindors a dark look. "I just wanted keep you posted on her whereabouts." With a curt nod, he spun around and headed toward the Slytherin table.

Harry looked among his friends. "Well?"

Ron scratched his head, mussing his hair with his hand. "Maybe once we get back to the Burrow, we can tell Dad and we can try to get a hold of her at Miss Proctor's. Maybe see if we can Floo or Apparate—"

Ron spotted Michael Corner striding into the Great Hall. Michael was looking over to the Slytherin table himself.

"Hey! Michael," Ron called out.

Michael jogged over to the little group.

"Hey there . . . um, Ginny, hi," Michael said awkwardly to his former girlfriend. She nodded in response.

Ron quickly told Michael what had happened to Daphne. The Ravenclaw's shock and surprise registered clearly on his face.

"_Damn_!" he exclaimed in a low, harsh tone. "She's been withdrawn for a couple of days, so she really wasn't talking to me about much of anything." Michael looked back up at the Gryffindors. "Unfortunately, I have no idea where Miss Proctor's house is, but I'll send an owl to her right after we're done." Michael gave a half-hearted shrug and chuckled sadly. "Probably send a bloody owl every day until she responds." He looked back up at the Gryffindors. "I'll admit, it's pretty pathetic of me—"

Harry shook his head. "Nothing's wrong with making sure she's all right, Michael." Harry gave Ginny's hand a quick squeeze, which she returned.

Nodding at each teen in turns, Michael turned and made his way toward an empty spot at the Ravenclaw table next to Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein.

Sighing, Harry allowed his gaze to travel toward the teacher's table, almost by force of habit. He swallowed a lump that leapt up his throat when he saw the empty chair in the middle of the table, McGonagall just sitting to its left. It would be so easy, so natural after the year they've had, to just _believe_ Dumbledore was away on some mission or assignment for the Order. Indeed, Harry himself almost believed it . . .

Harry then let his eyes travel to the end of the table, to the other empty chair toward the right side of the table. Harry felt his face darken, his mood shifted to cold fury.

(_Snape._)

(_Murderer._)

(Dumbledore's_ murderer._)

Swallowing his anger and his desire to avenge his mentor's death, Harry moved back toward the Gryffindor table and took his seat with Ginny, Ron and Hermione.

* * *

"Ron," Hermione said, pulling him into the empty classroom. They had just finished with their meal (what little they could eat, at least), and waved as Michael Corner left the Great Hall, ostensibly to dispatch an inquiring missive to Daphne Greengrass. "Ron, you've been oddly quiet this morning. Is something wrong?"

Ron ran his hand to his ever-lengthening locks. It was true that he had been quieter than normal, merely asking "Anyone we know in _there_ today?" as Hermione read through her copy of the_ Daily Prophet_. He couldn't really say anything else.

Not when he was about to do what he needed to do _today_ . . . what he needed to make Hermione understand.

"Hey, can we sit down?" Ron asked, pointing at the floor in front of the teacher's desk at the head of the classroom. Ron spread out his cloak so he and Hermione would have a barrier between themselves and the chilly stone floor.

Hermione sat cross-legged, facing Ron, who slid down the front of the desk. Ron took one of her far-smaller hands, rubbing them gently in between his palms. She waited for him to speak, to gather the courage he knew he needed to do this thing . . .

"I can't help but blame myself for what happened, Hermione," Ron said softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper, as he looked at her hand. Hermione sighed audibly.

"I know. I feel the same way, too."

Ron looked at her. "What do you think, then?"

Hermione's face set in a thin, grim line. "I don't think Harry will be coming back to school next year."

That wasn't _quite_ the answer he had been expecting.

"W-what? Why—"

"Dumbledore told him about the Horcruxes, Ron. He clearly intended for Harry to search for them. And he needs to start soon. Honestly, he needs to start once he turns seventeen, which is barely in two months."

Ron breathed out. "You're right, of course." He looked at her and brought one of his hands up to gently touch her cheek. His other hand continued to rub hers. Hermione closed her eyes and leaned into his palm. "You're always right." With a twinge to his own heart, he saw tears already running down her cheeks. He continued to hold her face with his big, clumsy hand. "So, we'll go with him, won't we?"

He tried to make it sound like a question, but it came out as a statement. Cringing as he thought Hermione wouldn't want him to speak for the both of them, he was surprised to watch her nod her head slowly and deliberately.

"He needs us, Ron. He needs us more than ever."

The lump drifted to Ron's throat and, to his own utter horror, he realized his own eyes were growing wet. "Maybe, then, we need t-to . . ." Ron had to take a breath; he felt his will, his determination to do the right thing starting to crumble. "We n-need to slow _us_ down. Be just 'Ron' and 'Hermione' for a bit." He chanced a quick glance to Hermione, who was shedding tears in earnest. Ron dropped her hand and brought his other hand to her face; he didn't care if both of his palms were both growing wet from cupping Hermione's cheeks, or that he could feel the water spilling out of his own eyes. He looked at Hermione. He couldn't _stop_ looking at her, even as her face grew more wet, her nose more runny, her chin wrinkled with her sobbing.

She was beautiful.

She was beautiful and he loved her . . . and she knew this.

She _had_ to know this.

He watched as Hermione nodded twice. "I-I've been th-thinking the s-same thing. Maybe we w-were too wr-rapped up with _us_ that we forgot about Harry . . . what Harry had to d-do, a-and what he suspected about Malfoy." Despite having started the whole conversation, Ron couldn't help but feel something hard fall onto his heart as Hermione mentioned that, by starting a relationship with _him_, they had neglected Harry.

" I think y-you might be right, R-Ron, that while we help Harry, while we go with him to find the Horcruxes, we ha-have to st-stay focused. A rel-relationship while we're out there with Harry c-could distract us. It could prevent us from seeing or listening to what Harry needs us to." Ron marveled as she wiped away at her face, her nose and cheeks with a decisiveness, that inner Hermione-strength that she possessed that made her _her_.

(_The girl you love_.)

He smiled as he watched her compose herself. "It won't be forever, y'know," he said in a thick voice filled with more tears. "We'll get him through this. We'll help him do what he needs to do to defeat . . . defeat . . ." Here, Ron took a deep, deep, _deep_ breath and shut his eyes. "V-Voldemort," he stammered.

When he opened his eyes, Ron saw Hermione staring at him, her eyes wide in surprise, in shock. She grasped the side of his face and kissed him hard and firmly on the mouth. Pulling away only slightly, she leaned her head forward, so their foreheads touched and they breathed in sync.

"I thought we were going to, y'know, Hermione . . . 'Take things slow'?"

"You said '_Voldemort_', Ron."

Ron shrugged, looking at her. "If I'd known you'd have _that _reaction to it, I would've said it a long time ago."

Hermione shook her head vigorously. "I know the amount of courage and strength it took for you to say his name. Don't joke. _Don't_. " She continued to gaze on him, his face in her hands. Ron didn't want to breathe, move, make a sound, for fear of breaking this trance . . . this spell . . .

Hermione was the first to move. She brought out her wand, pointed it at the door, and performed a Locking Charm and Silencing Charm.

"Herm—?"

She turned back to him. "We have _right_ _now_, Ron. We're together _now_, here, in the _present_." Hermione brought her hands to the back of his head, and ran her fingers through his hair. "When the future comes, we'll do what we need to do. I want to be with you _now._"

Ron had never seen her look at him when her eyes were so dark, her face so crimson, and her breath growing more and more deep and slightly ragged.

He brought his lips to hers, entwining his fingers into her wild hair. Turning her around, Ron continued to kiss her as she fell backwards onto his cloak and he leaned forward, still connected to her mouth. Their hands sought to loosen their clothes from their bodies and to touch whatever bare skin could be reached and stroked and smoothed, and they kissed each other and stopped only to give themselves the opportunity to explore their bodies with lips and tongues and only the slightest, most enjoyable use of teeth.

And Ron remembered something that his brothers had talked about in front of him . . . something that they said was the most _incredible _thing to do, something that a girl would never, ever, in a hundred years, _ever_ forget.

Curiosity and desire seized him and he started moving down her body—

Hermione reached down and brought his head back up, his lips once again meeting hers.

"Maybe, we should _leave_ a bit to look forward to," she said, her face flushed and a lopsided grin growing on her face.

Ron looked back at her, a smile of his own plastered on his. He smoothed her hair down with one hand. "Her-Herm-mione . . . would you mind, though, if, I . . ." Suddenly blushing, Ron's face rearranged itself rather awkwardly as he continued to look at her. "If I . . ." and he leaned over and whispered into Hermione's ear. When he lifted his head back up, he saw that she was blushing.

Blushing . . . but nodding.

Still looking at her, Ron kissed her cheeks . . . her nose . . . her forehead . . . he kissed her lips so very gently, so utterly softly, and he allowed his free hand — the one not currently tangled in her hair — to slide down her chest . . . past her navel . . . past her hips . . .

His hand found its destination.

And Ron found himself breathing steadily and he matched Hermione breath for deep breath and he watched her face, her eyes, her mouth widen and gasp and he continued to touch her because she never stopped him and she smiled with her mouth still open and she brought her head back and closed her eyes and Ron found his lips kissing her neck, touching her . . . touching her . . . touching her . . .

* * *

"Ginny?"

"Not yet, Harry."

"But . . . I _hate_ this . . . I dunno where we _are_!" he whinged.

Harry heard Ginny "tsk" in mock annoyance.

Harry heard this because he couldn't see.

Harry couldn't see because Ginny had told him to keep his eyes shut or he would feel the wrath of her Bat-Bogey Hex.

So, countless numbers of steps, corners, and winding paths later, Harry had decided to break the silence.

"_Ginny_?"

"_Ohh-kay_!" she exclaimed in exasperation. "We're here, Potter. Open 'em."

Before he opened his eyes, Harry took a deep breath, smelling the sweet fragrance of wet grass and fresh air. He could hear the chirping of birds flying in the air, the rustling of fabric in the breeze and, if he leaned forward and concentrated hard enough, he could hear the distant, echoing call of the domesticated Thestrals Hagrid kept in the forest.

He knew where they were . . . but he didn't know why.

Harry opened his eyes, and, sure enough, they were standing in a patch of open field with the Quidditch pitch behind him, and the lake and Forbidden Forest on either side. Harry looked at Ginny Weasley, her hand still holding his with fingers entwined, and a smile playing on her lips.

"Okay, so you've kidnapped me?" Harry asked, with a smirk. Ginny cocked her eyebrow.

"Oh, like you weren't willing."

Harry reached for her other hand . . . and finally noticed that she had his Firebolt in it.

(_You're losing your touch, Potter! You didn't even realize the thing was missing!_)

"What're you doing with that?' Harry asked her, pointing at his broom. "And how in the world did you nick it?"

Ginny continued to smirk, although now her mouth was turning more and more into a grin. "Apparently, you're _easy_ to distract."

Harry snorted. "Am not!"

Ginny kissed him firmly on the lips, dropping the Firebolt onto the damp grass.

(_Okay, so I'm easy . . ._)

"Are too," she whispered against his mouth, coyly grinning at him. She pulled back a bit, and brushed a fringe of his black hair off of his forehead. "I thought we'd go for a fly on your broom. I know you've had so much on your mind, and you and I haven't really had too much time for just the two of us." Ginny nudged at the right side of his body with her left. "What d'you think?"

Harry felt a smile growing on his face. For the last couple of days, he'd been walking around in a state that could only be described as a grim daze. His brain had been on constant rotation between Dumbledore . . . Snape . . . Malfoy . . . Horcruxes. . . .

And, of course, the one _thing_ he had to do in order to go through with his plan . . . the one thing he had to do before meeting his destiny.

His _bloody_ destiny . . .

(_It's sad that that's more true than not._)

But now, looking at Ginny . . . looking at her looking at _him_ . . . Harry remembered Dumbledore's advice to him during their second lesson. . . .

(_"But for now, Harry, just _live. . . ._"_)

Harry brought his hand to Ginny's waist, gazing at her with a loopy smile. He leaned forward to, once again, meeting Ginny's lips.

"Just _live_ . . . " Harry breathed against Ginny's mouth.

"What's that?" she asked, kissing him with small, feather-light pecks.

"We should fly."

With that, Harry took hold of his broomstick and held it out to Elongate the seat to accommodate both of them. Ginny climbed on first and Harry settled in behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her tightly into his chest.

It was times like this that Harry felt strong. Even though there was no doubt in his mind that Ginny was a powerful young witch, initiating such an intimate, protective gesture around the small redheaded girl filled Harry with a power and happiness that he had never known before.

Just before they kicked off the ground, Harry breathed on the side of Ginny's pale neck, watching as the stray strands of hair flew off of her skin. Smiling as he felt her tremble and heard her giggle, Harry kissed a small patch of freckles sprinkling her neck. Ginny's only response was a small sigh.

"Ready?" Harry asked her, kissing her ear. Ginny nodded.

Harry kicked off the ground and the couple soared high into the air, flying above the castle, the lake, the Quidditch pitch. Ginny threw her head back and laughed and Harry felt it coming from her guts, from the very depths of her. She turned her head and looked at him, allowing Harry to steer the broom from behind. Harry marveled at how this girl trusted him so completely, trusted him to keep her safe.

"I do, you know."

"What?" Harry asked her with a furrowed brow.

Ginny looked at him, licked her lips and blushed that famous Weasley blush.

(_Godric, I love it when she blushes . . ._)

"I just do, Harry." Ginny reached up with one hand and, with the other remaining firmly on the Firebolt, touched Harry's cheek, stroking it gently. "Just remember that, okay? _Always _remember that."

Harry watched as Ginny's face fell just the tiniest bit, and he thought he heard her voice hitch slightly in her throat. However, he reckoned he imagined it because Ginny's face instantly brightened and she kissed him vigorously and passionately.

It startled him so much that he nearly lost his balance on the broom.

"_Circe's ghost_!" Ginny exclaimed.

"Oh shite!" Harry immediately righted them and laughed heartily into Ginny's shoulder.

"You need to warn me before you do that," Harry said, his voice muffled against her body.

"So snogging me's overloading your sensory system, eh, Potter?" Harry could hear the teasing in Ginny's voice and, even though he wasn't looking at her, he knew she was smirking in that adorably flirtatious way she had about her. "Who'd've thought 'The-Boy-Who-Lived' could be taken down by a simple kiss!"

"Gin, I hate to break it to you, but kissing you is never simple."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ginny looked at him with a raised eyebrow, lopsided grin still on her face.

"What I mean is that you've got this crazy effect on me."

"And what's that, Potter?"

"That every time I kiss you," Harry said, kissing her shoulder and the nape of her neck after each word, "I don't want to stop. And then I think to myself, 'Well, nothing's ever gonna get done if I keep this up.'" Harry kissed a trail up from the back of her neck, toward her ear, taking his sweet time. "But I never want to stop doing this."

"Then don't, Harry." Ginny turned her head back toward him. Harry brought the Firebolt to a stop, hovering over the Astronomy Tower.

"Ginny . . ." Harry began. Ginny shushed him and put a finger to his mouth.

"No, I don't mean don't do what you have to do, Harry. I'm young and crazy as hell about you, but I'm not stupid. What I mean is, do it with me by your side. You've got my brother. You've got my sister. They stand with you, Harry. And so do I."

Harry shut his eyes and kissed Ginny's finger still planted firmly on his mouth. It was all he could do to stop his eyes from watering. He couldn't talk. Which was quite all right, because Ginny continued to speak.

"I do, Harry. I do . . . far more than you know, okay?"

Harry opened his eyes and looked at her.

And he _knew_.

He knew without ever being told.

He didn't care that they'd been together less than a month. He didn't care if they were only teenagers.

She did.

And he did.

"I know you do, Ginny. And you should know . . . so do I."

Ginny's lips turned up just the slightest amount, and they hovered in the air, kissing . . . and touching . . . and kissing each other, lost in themselves, clinging to their bodies and the freedom of air and open space, all untouched by the darkness and evil that threatened to destroy their world.

* * *

(_It's been _two_ days . . . _)

The girl in the black v-necked cotton shirt, denim cutoffs and natty flip-flops with the worn heels from constant use on concrete sidewalks, walked into Select-A-Disc on Berwick Street in London, her tatty billfold holding a small amount of Muggle money.

(_Two whole bloody days . . ._)

She heard a song wafting through brown speakers hanging up in the corners of the store. The man's voice, a nasally whine, sang about being the one to "_saaaa-ve me_," because "_afta' ah-aaaahll, you're my won-dah-wa-a-alll,_" and she bobbed along to the rich orchestration of cellos, piano, and drums. Posters upon posters of Muggle rock groups hung on the wall, a couple of them chipping and falling off. There was shelving upon which album sleeves were propped. Even though the pictures never moved, the girl in the black v-neck smiled at sounds and sights in the charming Muggle store.

(_God, Greengrass, your housemates would kick your arse if they saw you in here!_)

(_Thank Salazar you never told them about your thing for Muggle music, then, eh?_)

"'Ello?" the bloke behind the counter asked her, "are you looking for somethin' specific?"

Daphne hoped desperately that he wouldn't be able to hear her heart give a great leap of surprise, because as she saw his face, she thought she was staring at . . . "Michael?"

Except, the bloke had two hoops going through his right eyebrow, and what looked like a dagger sticking out of his chin. Plus, his right ear had piercings running up and down its length. He frowned at her. "I'm actually Jay."

"Oh," Daphne said, rather vaguely. "Right . . . er, yeah." She fumbled for a quick recovery. "What's this?" she asked, pointing in the air toward the speakers.

"Jay" raised his eyebrows then brought them back down quickly. Crossing his arms, he spoke to Daphne in an utterly incredulous tone. "_Only_ Britain's greatest band since The Beatles! Where in the world have _you_ been for the past year?"

Daphne shrugged. "Attending Britain's only school of witchcraft and wizardry."

Jay looked at her like she had just turned into a ferret.

"I'm kidding, of course," Daphne smirked. "I've been out of the country . . . um, with family."

"Where? Antarctica?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Are you gonna answer my question? And what's all this 'greatest band since The Beatles' shit? This is nice, but it ain't no 'Hey Jude'."

Daphne didn't even see Jay reach down to grab a small, flat, square case, as quick as the kid moved. He emerged from behind the counter and held the piece of plastic directly in front of Daphne's face. Jay spoke to Daphne like a teacher giving a lecture to a group of very young children. "This is a compact disc, or a _C-D_." He made a huge show of opening the plastic case, and Daphne saw the disc inside. Jay continued to talk slowly, like he was reading a book to a toddler. "It's a shiny, silvery, circular object that makes the cassette tapes that _you_ were eyeing the moment you walked in here as current as Frankie Goes To Hollywood—"

Daphne snatched the plastic case out of Jay's hands, narrowing her eyes into sharp daggers at him. She read the name on the bottom right corner of the picture in the case.

"Oasis?" she asked, raising one eyebrow.

"_Da-aamn . . ._ well, you're clearly 'n need of a massive overhaul in your music collection . . . Y' _should_ get the Oasis CD, the one that's currently playing, and also . . ." Jay rummaged around behind his counter. "Where 'n the hell's those bloody — _Ah-hah_! Found you." Jay pulled out two more CD's, and spoke directly to them. "I'm counting on you to rescue this poor girl from musical purgatory." With a decisive shake, Jay handed them over to Daphne.

She regarded the new offering. "Pulp . . . _Different Class_—"

"I _guarantee_ 'Common People' will change your life." Jay said reverently.

Daphne looked at the second CD, and frowned.

(_The hell?_)

"You," Daphne addressed Jay, "are seriously making music recommendations for a group that names their album after a condiment?"

Jay rolled his eyes. "Stereolab will transform how you listen to music." Daphne watched as Jay's eyes glazed over, apparently lost in a daydream about his beloved _Emperor Tomato Ketchup_. "As soon as you put this into your player, you'll wonder how your ears, hell, your very_ soul_, could have gone for so long without this glorious piece of sound-art."

Daphne simply cocked her eyebrow . . . but realized that Jay had just raised a very good point.

"I . . . er, don't exactly have a CD player."

Jay's mouth fell open. He was completely shocked.

"I've been _away_!" Daphne exclaimed defensively.

Shaking his head, Jay held up a single finger, and moved away from the counter, leaving Daphne alone, tapping her foot impatiently. She kept looking at each of the three CDs that were in her hand, flipping them over and looking at the lists of song titles.

"Ah . . ." she breathed out to herself. "'Wonderwall'. Makes sense now . . ."

"Here ya go!" Jay came running back up to Daphne, shoving a clear plastic container into her hands. Daphne looked at the flat, boxy Discman in the package, black with "Sony" written in raised letters on the bottom edge of the cover.

"You have seen one of these before, right?" Jay asked her, his voice thick with condescension.

Daphne merely glared at him. "No, I just came in on a time machine from the Middle Ages!"

Jay held his hands up. "Fine. Sorry."

Daphne looked at all of the merchandise she was now holding . . . looked at the price tags of all three CD's and the Discman . . . and her eyes went round.

(_Merlin! I barely have enough for _two_ of the CD's._)

Daphne continued to look at Jay cautiously as he moved without saying a single word toward the back of the counter and to the cash register.

(Don't_ do it . . ._)

(_Shut. _Up_!_)

(_Greengrass—_)

Daphne silently cursed the voice in her head, telling her that what she was thinking was a very bad idea, indeed.

It was made that much worse as the voice sounded like Ron giving her a stern warning.

(_Well-llll . . . Weasley ain't here, now. Is he?_)

(_GREENGR—_)

"How will you be paying, then?" Jay asked, after he pushed some buttons on the register.

Daphne acted like she was looking over the counter for something. "Got a blank sheet of paper back there? Oh, and a plastic bag?" she asked, her voice bright and casual sounding.

Jay's brow creased, but he reached behind the counter, and pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a bag; he handed both over.

Daphne pulled out her wand out of her back pocket. It was rather uncomfortable, as it had been poking her in the back, but it had remained nice and concealed under her tee-shirt.

"What in the name of the Queen is that?" Jay asked, goggling at odd-looking stick Daphne was currently brandishing.

"Just a special pen, is all," Daphne kept her voice light. She waved the wand one time over the paper and handed it back to Jay.

(_That better've worked . . ._)

"That settles it then, right?" Daphne asked brightly. She smiled, more to herself than anything, when Jay's eyes slid in and out of focus. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it.

"Er, _y-y-yeah_ . . . sure." Jay hit the side of his head a couple of times. "All right, then . . . wait, did I give you your receipt?" He checked the cash register.

"Yes you did," Daphne responded in that same bright voice.

"Fine. Hold on, d'ya need a bag or anything?"

"Got one!" Daphne said brightly over her shoulder as she walked toward the door; her "purchased" merchandise already settling down inside the bag for the trip back on the Underground. She bolted out of the store without further conversation or incident.

Once outside, she ran a few blocks until she found a bench. Sitting down to catch her breath, she shut her eyes and pushed down an almost nauseating wave of guilt.

(_Well, good to know your back to your old tricks. Learned a lot this year, didn'tcha, Greengrass?_)

(_Oh, shut up! He was a dickhead, anyways—_)

(_Y'know, the MLEs would probably have been alerted to the unauthorized use of magic on a Muggle . . ._)

(_Oh, but don't they have a whole lot on their plates right now than to be worrying about the shit I just pulled? I dunno . . . _Voldemort_ ring any bells?_)

Quickly using her wand to open the plastic container, she pulled out the Discman and eyed it with a bit of admiration. It was certainly a damn sight nicer than her old tape player.

Daphne let herself calm down for a few moments. Once again, closing her eyes, Daphne conjured up the spell Mr. Weasley had taught her over the Christmas holiday; the spell essentially focused magic into the Muggle device where the batteries or other power source would normally go.

"_Operate per Veneficus,_" Daphne pronounced, clearly and strongly. A bright yellow light surrounded the Discman. Daphne raised her eyebrows and breathed out slowly.

"Well, there's only one way to test this sucker out, isn't there?"

She unwrapped the Oasis CD first. For some inexplicable reason, she felt compelled to listen to the song that had been playing in the record store.

Daphne placed the CD into the device, and snapped the cover shut. Putting on the headphones, Daphne fumbled for a couple of seconds with the instructions. Once she had determined that she could actually skip to the song she wanted ("Whoa . . . _wicked_!"), Daphne held her breath as she pushed the "PLAY" button. She pushed what looked like the "Next" button three times . . .

"To_-day is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you . . ._"

Daphne felt a small smile growing on her face, and she felt her head moving in time to the guitars, then to the cellos, then to the drums—

"_And all the roads we have to walk are winding_,

_And all the lights that lead us there are blinding_ . . ."

Daphne gathered her things and stood up from the bench, making her way to the nearest Tube stop to get back to Miss Proctor's house.

It took her a few listens, but she found herself singing along to the chorus, the masculine voice filling her head with its supremely nasally, yet oddly compelling sound:

"_I said, maybe _

_You're gonna be the one who saves me?_

_And after all,_

_You're my wonderwall_ . . ."

_Fin. _


End file.
